All Hope Abandoned
by Ankha
Summary: I once asked myself what could Holmes do to drive Watson away. This is what came out: Hidden away in the wall of a cottage a set of journals were found. The secrets they held were nothing short of tragic. Slash H/W.
1. Chapter 1

All Hope Abandoned

A/N: Okay, haven't done this in a while. Hopefully this will allow me to get back into the saddle. Don't allow this chapter to scare you off, wait till the next one. It should be up tomorrow at the latest. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Not mine, never were.

Ch. 1-The Discovery

It was some six months ago that my husband and I purchased this quaint little cottage in the countryside. Both of us had tired of the hustle and bustle of life in London and here we might raise children in relative peace. But I am delaying the start of the tale.

It was a little over a month ago when my husband was repairing one of the cottage walls that he ran across a much battered tin case. It took some effort to pry it open, for time had rusted it shut, but the effort was quite worth it when several journals, perfectly preserved, proved to be its contents. Upon seeing this, Tobias handed them over to my care as he could not decipher their scribbles and I, an English scholar, might have more luck. I was grateful for the distraction for he had refused to allow me to help with this stage of the restoration. Setting myself up in our bedroom, I had only managed a quick glance at the yellowed page and faded ink when my screams brought my husband to my side. With some concern, he drew one of my hands to his and asked what was the matter. My other hand, which was not held prisoner, trembled something awful as I pointed to the faded signature and date at the bottom of the page. Tobias lifted the journal from my lap and released my hand in favor of the magnifying glass I kept close at hand. When he finally determined what had made me scream, he too paled, for there, at the bottom of the fragile page was:

John H. Watson 1894

We looked at one another and I just knew that our thoughts were a mirror. We had bought the cottage of the Great Detective and his Boswell.

I believe that it was some time before either of us could recover and when we did we discussed what we must do with such an enormous find. It was eventually decided that we would present our discovery to the public after, as my Tobias insisted, I had transcribed the nearly illegible scribbles. Who knew what tales might lie within, but I was hesitant, at least, on the point of making them public. What were the contents of these pages that they must be sealed away from prying eyes in a _wall_? Tobias conceded my point but was quite insistent on the matter of my transcribing the works. Only I, he insisted, would be able to handle such a feat, and do so faithfully. While he undoubtedly exaggerates, I certainly appreciated the sentiment and was flattered by his belief in me. It was only after he had left me to my enormous task, that I began to flip through the pages with care and realized that this was not just another tale of the Great Detective's cases, but a private journal of the doctor's. That, at least, shed some light on the subject of why it was hidden away so, but still, what sort of secret did they conceal? Abandoning the first journal, I moved on to the others and found that the next two followed along in a similar vein and were, I determined, in the doctor's scrawl. It was the remaining slim green volumes that showed another hand all together. They showed the hand of the Great Detective and were a quite a bit easier to read for their neatness of script. If there was ever any doubt as to the doctor's occupation, one only had to view a sample of his handwriting for their doubts to be banished. After a brief comparison of dates, I realized that the two sets of journals ran parallel to one another and therefore picked up the detective's first. I was sure that the contents would allow me to better interpret the doctor's scribbles but nothing could have prepared me for the opening line.

"I have finally succeeded in doing what I had thought impossible. I have driven my Watson away."

The journal dropped from my nerveless fingers. Driven Watson away? But that just wasn't possible. History had clearly shown the doctor remaining faithfully by the detective's side since their first meeting in 1881 through marriages, deaths, and even Reichenbach Falls. No indication had ever been given that the doctor had willing been separated, nay, driven from Holmes's side. By all accounts the two had died together in their cottage, this cottage, some years after World War I, though no one had determined the precise date. By that point the two had bowed out of the public eye and the world had let them, too intent on rebuilding itself after such a devastating event. No one even knew where they were buried.

Picking up the journal again, I shut it with great care. Perhaps it would be best, despite the headache it would likely give me, to begin with Dr. Watson's account of the event.

Now, after two months worth of long hours and bitterly shed tears, I present to you, dear reader, the combined accounts of the tragic separation of the detective and his doctor as told by the men themselves. I have done my best to be as faithful as possible, but, dear reader, take into account that this is a private journal. It was never meant to be read by the public, so you might find Dr. Watson's and Mr. Holmes's writing somewhat different than what you are accustomed to.

End Chapter 1

A/N: Okay, so I played with Canon timeline just a bit, but we base Canon timeline on what Watson tells us so I don't see why he would always tell us the truth. This story is not finished but I am several chapters up. I haven't put anything on here in a long time. Hopefully I will grab your attention.

Reviews are always welcome!


	2. The Incident

A/N: Okay, here is chapter two. These chapters will alternate between Watson and Holmes's journals. Right now I am stuck in Watson's again. . Hopefully I will summon the correct emotions to get it across soon.

Disclaimer: Not mine, Eh? Damn.

Chapter 2-The Incident

July 27, 1894

It is a day that I am unlikely to forget no matter how grey my hair or feeble my mind may become. It has been some two weeks now since it happened and my hand is barely steady enough to place the recollections down on paper. My former colleague would no doubt sneer and point out all of the inherent risks that come with placing such an event, especially in regard to my thoughts and feelings on the subject, down on paper, but I find that I am driven to do so. Cut off as I am from those I might discuss such a delicate topic if I were so inclined and permanently estranged from my past colleague, I am quite adrift. If I do not commit this to paper then it is all together possible that I might lose what tenuous hold on my sanity that I have.

It started off as so many other black moods my past colleague was prone to during the lull between cases that I thought nothing of it at first but endeavored to do my best to draw him from it. A task that is on the level of the twelve tasks of Hercules and, in my opinion, trickier and more delicate than all of them combined. It was rapidly approaching the end of June and the ever-present fog that lay above London descended to engulf the city and its inhabitants, obscuring even the sun in a slightly brown haze. Holmes had declared to the world some two months past that he continued to dwell among the living while his foe, Professor James Moriarity, had met both his mental and physical match in the detective and lay at the bottom of those blasted falls as proof.

I did not tell Holmes, for yes I must be able to write his name, that there were times when the mere sight of water being poured made me violently ill. I did not tell him of how I still woke screaming as if it would drown out the roar of Reichenbach, whose sound seemed permanently etched in my brain. I did not tell him that, at times, I would have rather cut off both my hands than return to my own lodgings. Even with all the time that had passed, some nine weeks, I was loathed to be separated from his side.

So it was that I was quietly helping my patients to find other doctors or informing the ones that would have none of that, that I would be moving soon.

"Back to Baker Street, eh Dr. Watson?" Mr. Kelspar's eyes fairly twinkled under his bushy grey brows. "I dare say Mr. Holmes will be glad of that."

I laughed along with him but some part of me whispered doubt. Despite what I thought of as a joyful reunion, something was out of place. We did not fall back into the easy companionship we once had, but that could be explained away considering the three year absence we had had from one another. But still, I took heart that time would heal the wound of our separation.

I could not have been more wrong. Indeed, time spent together only made things worse, though it was not until after The Incident as I have since dubbed it, that I realized as much.

It was a particularly dreadful Saturday afternoon when I ended my rounds and allowed the cab to take me to Baker Street instead of my own lodgings. Despite the fact that I would likely find Holmes deep in that black mood that had consumed him these last six days, I longed to see him at the end of such a wretched day. I knew that his mere presence would drive away the panic that arose in my breast if I were away from his side for too long. It was irrational and illogical and there was little doubt that Holmes would have mocked me for it, but what could I do? It was fear, and fear is never rational or logical, but it was assuaged somewhat when I sat in my old arm chair across from him even if a word never passed his lips in the entirety of my visit.

Perhaps it was my need, nay, my hunger for him that finally drove him to speak what lay within his heart. It has always been my first and greatest fear that he should deduce exactly how deep my regard for him truly ran. It passed that of an intimate friend and colleague, passed that of a brother, passed all that is considered decent and, if discovered, earn me some time in the gaols. That is, if I were to act upon it. There was small chance of that for I knew that I would lose something far more precious to me than my freedom or reputation. I would lose Holmes.

Strange that I have lost him anyway.

I paid the cab driver and dragged myself up the seventeen steps to the sitting room. The recent dampness combined with all of today's activity was playing merry hell with my shoulder and leg. I wanted nothing more than to stretch before the fire with a stout brandy and Holmes near at hand. I found him, as I predicted, deep into that black mood and, yet, my heart lightened to see that spare figure drawn up into what I had privately termed his "thinking pose" with his knees under his clasped tightly to his stomach and blue smoke from his strong shag tobacco curling like lazy vines around his head. I called out a greeting but received no response save the vague tightening around the eyes. It was not until I passed to his right side that the smile dropped from my face.

"Good heavens, Holmes, what the devil happened to you?" Again I received no response. Kneeling on the floor beside the settee, I visually inspected the damage. He sported an impressive black eye that had to be as painful as it was colorful. Another bruise blossomed just under his cheek and I wondered if he had not lost a tooth in whatever matter he had tangled himself up in. Now that I was closer, the fire highlighted what it had previously hidden in shadow: a long, thin line across his throat that admitted just the barest trickle of blood, but was, nevertheless, enough to stain his shirt collar. He did not acknowledge my presence or even so much as look in my direction as I performed this part of my exam. Indeed, I thought he might be wholly unaware of me if it were not for what happened next. I opened my bag to retrieve a disinfectant and lifted my hand to cradle the side of his face.

I never made contact.

Holmes sprang to life, slapping my hand aside and toppling both me and my bag to the floor in his haste to get away. "Cease your molly coddling, Doctor, for I will have none of it!"

I stared at him in open astonishment and I dare say that I must have looked frightfully ridiculous with my mouth gaped open as it was. "Holmes?"

"How anyone with such a cold, unfeeling, and clumsy touch ever found success as a physician is beyond even my power to deduce. You are better suited as a butcher than a surgeon."

I could not rise for his words had rooted me in place. What was this? Had he…oh God in heaven above, please let him not have discovered…

"God as my witness, if you should ever attempt to lay a hand on even my shirt cuff ever again, I shall knock you flat, of that you can be sure, _Doctor_." The pure mockery of my title sent ice through my veins and I begin to shiver despite the fire so close at hand.

"And do not think for one instant that it has escaped me as to what you are doing." Slowly he began to stalk towards me, reminding me too much of a tiger who was cornering its prey. "You are slowly farming out your patients to others in the hopes of closing your practice and moving back in with me." With each step his voice had risen until he was close to shouting as he stood over me. Lifting one foot, he knocked me the rest of the way to floor and dug his heal into my wounded shoulder, sending jolts of agony throughout my entire body. At my gasp of pain, he let out a laugh. I always treasured the sound of his laughter, for it was rare and each instance was precious to me. But this one…my chest seized up at the sound, but the pain had nothing to do with my shoulder.

"I say again, _Doctor_, I will have none of it! Three years I managed to escape the oppressiveness of your nature and yet it has returned ten-fold! So you may do with your practice and your lodgings as you wish but do not think that you will find a place here with me! I can take it no more!"

There are no words in the English language, or any language, that can adequately describe how I was feeling at that moment. Thrice I have lain down my pen and reached for my brandy though I have managed little of it, considering the shaking of my hand. There is not much I remember after this. I know that I must have picked myself up and removed myself from the sitting room. If I spoke to Holmes, I do not know, but I have some recollection of telling Mrs. Hudson goodbye, something I had once promised her that I would not do unless I had no intention of ever returning. I believe she led me down the stairs and to the street but there my remembrances of her end. I must have proceeded on foot but I could not have had any destination in mind other than to get away. It was not until I had literally run into a solid chest that I came somewhat back to myself.

"Dr. Watson? Dr. Watson, are you well, sir?" It was a voice that I knew well, but it was some seconds before I could force my eyes to focus on the face that swam before me. It was Lestrade. "Doctor, are you drunk?" He leaned forward to sniff my breath but nothing but water had passed my lips that day. "Perhaps we had best take a ride to Baker Street, Doctor, so we can get you straightened out."

The mention of Baker Street did what nothing else had.

"No!" My shout attracted those few who were still on the street. "I cannot, you must not, no!"

It is clear now that my incoherent rambling disturbed the inspector, for he drew me from the street to a nearby alley and propped me against wall away from prying eyes and ears. "Dr. Watson! Watson!" I continued to murmur "no" under my breath and once more ignored him. "Forgive me, Doctor," he whispered before delivering a resounding slap across my cheek.

The shock allowed me to focus on the worried inspector. "Lestrade?" It was barely a breath of a word.

"Thank God, Doctor, you were truly beginning to frighten me. Now, calmly, tell me what's happened. Why don't you want to go back to Baker Street?"

Where do I begin? How do I begin? Could I? At this point, I could not force myself to repeat the vitriol that had passed my detective's lips. I opened my mouth to try and explain but all that emerged was, "Holmes," and I was horrified to feel hot tears threatening to spill down my cheeks.

Lestrade's gaze only grew more concerned. "Did something happen to Mr. Holmes?" When all I did was shake my head and repeat Holmes's name under my breath, the police inspector shook me. "Doctor, you must pull yourself together man! What has happened to Mr. Holmes?"

Even as I tried to do as Lestrade commanded, my breath hitched with each deep inhalation, threatening to send the tears spilling over. Some time had passed but the police inspector was nothing if not patient. Finally I mastered myself enough to spit out, "I am no longer welcome," before my control once more slipped and one tear escaped.

Even if my context was not entirely clear, Lestrade divined its deeper meaning, perhaps even better than I had intended. His eyes widened ever so slightly before his entire face hardened. "Don't worry, Doctor, you just come with me."

Bundling me close (why had I not realized that I was shivering? Shock, of course), we emerged onto the street and he hailed a cab. Hustling me inside, he rapped on the top and called "Diogenes Club!" before settling beside me instead of across. With no word of explanation, he once more drew me close. And just as a child would take such comfort from a parent when his heart was broken, so did I from Lestrade. At the time I gave no thought as to why he would do such a thing, or even how he had sensed a deeper meaning behind my simple words. Thought was beyond me; I had indeed descended into shock, but the numbness that accompanied it was a welcome respite from the tumultuous emotions from The Incident. But it was all a lie; this non-feeling would not last and I greatly feared that the storm I had experience earlier would increase a thousand-fold in proportions once released.

End Ch. 2

A/N: Oh I am evil. Next chapter we will be from Holmes's journal. Why would the Great Detective do such a thing? You'll just have to wait to find out.

Reviews are always appreciated!


	3. The Reason

All Hope Abandoned

A/N: *laughs evilly* You guys have no idea how you made my day. It is so good to be evil with characters again. *snickers* If you ever read any of my other works, you would completely understand what I mean. Okay, back to this. Holmes is not going to come right out and tell you why he does this, or, at least, his reasons behind it. Honestly I think they're both being idiots about it but Holmes is most definitely the bigger idiot of this situation. Why you ask? You'll see.

Ch. 3-The Reason

July 20, 1894

I have finally succeeded in doing what I thought impossible. I have driven my Watson away. I find it ironic that with his absence I am driven to do the one thing I would scold him for doing: I am plying pen to paper and placing this account within the handsome green volumes that my dear Watson had gifted me with the Christmas before I took my leave of him at Reichenbach. I cannot help but do this, for, if I do not, I will dive straight back into the cocaine bottle and never crawl out again.

But I digress and am guilty of doing the one thing I implore my clients not to do and have started in the middle. I suppose it is of little consequence for even though it would be a crime, I will need to burn these journals upon my completion of the account.

But then, I suppose the reason for my digression is that I do not know precisely where to begin. I cannot accurately trace the origin of my feelings for Watson, only that I remember one day during the beginning of his first marriage when he had stopped for a visit. We both were seated before the fire and I was regaling him with the details of a recent case. While I will be the first to point out that logic and deduction are always at the forefront of my thoughts when they pertain to a case, when it comes to Watson, the showman rears his head and I spin my tales for his romantic tastes.

It was the laugh that was my downfall.

Just as I presented the humorous climax of my story, Watson let out the clearest, heartiest laugh I had ever heard him or any other utter. No doubt I am biased, but the sheer beauty of the sound stole my breath. He was a sight to behold. Light from the lamps and fire highlighted the light blond hair (I always suspected that he was completely white-headed as a child), the green eyes sparkled with mirth, and that robust frame heaved as he revealed in his amusement. My heart, which I hitherto believed to be dead when it came to such matters, swelled and I was quite unable to speak for some time. So long what I silent that Watson's amusement fled and he drew to my side in concern when I failed to respond to his inquires. It was only when he laid a hand on my wrist to check my pulse that I returned to my senses. I wasted no time in hustling him out of the room and back to his wife.

That was the first time I truly lost myself in the cocaine bottle.

Before this I had only toyed with the use of this addictive drug, but now that I had discovered something much more addictive, I could barely stop my hands from shaking long enough to press the plunger home once I located a vein.

It was some time before I returned to myself but thankfully Mrs. Hudson, whom by the tidiness of the room was very worried indeed, had not fetched Watson. I believe that I may have commanded her not to and even in my drugged states I can be rather imperious. In order to escape these newfound revelations, I dressed and disappeared into the very bowels of the city itself, not returning for almost a week. By my return I had resolved that Watson should never know of my feelings and that in order to keep my mind free of the shackles of these useless emotions I would slowly extract Watson from my side. It was a task that should have been accomplished with relative ease considering his nuptials.

I am afraid that it was not so simple and all together painful. I took cases that took me away from London, even away from England, but it was of little use. Watson was always there when I returned with an eager but sympathetic ear. For him I have put on some of my very best shows and my very worst performances. There is little doubt that he has remarked upon my strange mood swings within his writings. Oh, if he only knew that he was the cause of many of my "black moods" as has so termed them! He would no doubt be horrified that I have considered conducting an experiment on what causes me to crave the cocaine more—his presence or absence.

For years I dwelled in this hell which was only made worse by the death of his first wife. Of course, I encouraged him to return to Baker Street and once more take his lodgings with me. How could I not open my arms to him in his time of grief? A colder man than I would have thought nothing of providing empty sympathy, but when it comes to my Watson, the emotion was all too real. To distract him, I once more asked him to accompany me on my cases and to my delight I had some measure of success in drawing him from his grief so that it did not consume him. It was nearly six months before I could trick that hearty laugh from its hiding place and another six before I did not have to.

And then came Mary Morstan.

A woman more aptly matched for my good doctor I shall never meet again. Not a weak, useless decoration as so many of the women our society produces, but a strong-willed individual tempered by a kind and gentle soul. Unlike the first wife, Miss Mary was always very considerate of my friendship with her husband and never raised one protest when I dragged the good doctor off on some hair-brained, dangerous mission simply because I craved to have him at my side. I always suspected that she divined some deeper meaning to my calling on Watson, but was not until I called and he was not present did she confirm my suspicions.

"Come and have tea with me, Mr. Holmes. John will not be home for some time yet." She drew me into the sitting room, unsuspecting, but still wary as I am with all the fairer sex, save Mrs. Hudson perhaps. I accepted the tea and was shocked to find that it was exactly the way I liked it. "Don't look so surprised, Mr. Holmes. John has mentioned more than once how you take your tea, just so that if the opportunity ever arose, I would be able to make it for you." She smiled behind her tea cup. "I was beginning to despair that I would ever be given such a chance."

"My apologies, Miss Mary," I hastened to reply, "It is just that…"

"You find most people to be positively pedestrian and the idea of having to spend an evening making small talk with a virtual stranger over such matters as lace doilies makes you want to shoot something." My astonishment over this frank assessment must have shown, for she gave a little laugh. "I have had much instruction in your ways from my husband, good sir, and have longed to tell you that you are welcome here at any time and that lace doilies need never be mentioned. I would, in fact, love to hear about some of your cases." There was that smile again. "If you do not believe that the details will offend my delicate nature."

That tricked a bark of laughter from me, but cold sobriety soon followed as I sat the tea cup aside and leaned forward. "You do not mind that I take him with me, away from you, on potentially dangerous cases? Because, have no doubt, madam, that what I do can be very dangerous and our lives have been threatened more than once." It was a test, but she had to understand the true gravity of the situation.

She only continued to smile. "John would follow you to the very depths of Hell itself to prevent you from coming to harm. Indeed, I believe he has already done that. I could no more force him from your side than I could cut off my own hand, nor would I wish to. He belonged to you, Mr. Holmes, long before I was ever present in his mind or heart. But I know the love that he holds for me keeps good company with the love he holds for you." Here she paused and laid a delicate hand over one of my own which had clenched into a tight fist during the speech. "And I know that because of _your_ love for him that you will do everything in your power to keep him safe." She paused again to make sure she had my eye. "Even going so far as to deny yourself his company for propriety's sake."

I closed my eyes and turned my head, unwilling to believe on some level the double meaning of her supposedly innocent words. No, she could not… Surely I was placing false meanings behind her words. That had to be it.

"And why, madam, would I need to deprive myself of my Boswell? His company is a welcome respite to the clients and Scotland Yarders, but certainly not necessary to my existence as you have so implied."

"That remark was unworthy of you, Mr. Holmes, and unworthy of your regard for my husband. But, considering the delicacy of the subject, I can let it pass. I would ask, however, that you not pretend to not understand my meaning."

I gave in then, my head hanging in defeat. It was not often that I was bested by the fairer sex, the name Irene Adler was still fresh in my mind, but Mary Watson had completely dumbfounded me. She had guessed at the truth even though I was quite certain I had kept a tight rein on my affection for Watson. I leapt to my feet, pacing to a fro before the fire even as Miss Mary watched, her gaze inexplicably calm. But how could she not be? She held all of the winning cards to this game. She had no proof of what she spoke, but a dropped comment here, a trifling rumor there and she could ruin me.

Or worse, she could tell Watson.

That very thought sucked all the air from me and I would have assuredly collapsed straight into the fire had it not been for that woman. She collected me close and deposited me back into my seat before retrieving the brandy and pouring a healthy dollop into my tea and bringing it to my lips. She was right not to trust my hands, for they were shaking terribly. Nevertheless, I secured control of both my cup and my composure once more and looked her squarely in the eye.

"You hold my future in your hands, Mrs. Watson," I addressed her formally. "If you wish me to withdraw from your husband's company, then I shall endeavor to do my best to honor your request." I swallowed back the bile that had risen in my throat at the thought of never seeing Watson again.

Mary shook her head and clasped my cold face between her warm hands. "How can a love so great and powerful be bad?" She stroked one stony cheek and drew me to her chest. I allowed her to do so. Indeed, I allowed Miss Mary many more liberties than others of her species. She petted my head. "You have suffered for this love that is obvious." She pulled back and once more our gazes locked. "I would not add to your sufferings, Mr. Holmes, and it was never my intention for you to believe that I would. What I did intend was for you to know and take some measure of comfort in that I understand what John means to you. You are just as much a part of him as he is of you. I know that his first wife did not understand this. Hah! Then she did not understand John and love him as she should have. Splitting you from his side would be like splitting away part of his soul."

She fell momentarily silent after this passionate speech and held my gaze, perhaps searching to see if I believed or even grasped what she spoke of. "There are things that I would have you promise me, Mr. Holmes." She must have felt my body stiffen for she patted the hand she held. "Only two favors, good sir, and both are well within your power. The first is that you never attempt to cut yourself from John's life. It would hurt the both of you and I would not have it."

I dared not move. "And the second?"

There was more than just a touch of the light-hearted imp in that smile. "That you take tea with John and me here at least once a month."

This tricked another laugh from me, but it was breathy with relief. "As you wish, milady, I will implore all my powers to see that I fulfill your requests."

She adopted a haughty manner. "See that you do, sir." She broke down in her own laugh and returned to her chair, glancing at the clock. "Now finish your tea, Mr. Holmes. John will be home any time now."

"Will he not be suspicious that a man has come to call when he is not home?" I could not help but tease as I tried to regain the balance that the woman had so easily offset.

"Not when the man is you." That handsome face once more turned serious. "Just a word of warning, Mr. Holmes. Should you ever try to run, I will help John set all the dogs of Hell itself on your heels and I do not care if we have to travel from one end of this great Earth to the other, we _will_ drag you back home where you belong."

I believe that I overcame my shock rather well and raised my tea cup in salute. "Duly noted, Miss Mary."

And so, for a time, I had some measure of contentment. Just as I promised, I did not cut Watson from my life. In fact, I took him on more cases than ever. The thrill was never so great as when he was present to share it with me. I even managed to keep my promise and called on the happy couple at least once a month, if not twice or even three times. It was easy to deduce the delight that Watson derived from my visits and I will admit that I was always on my very best behavior.

Even if I took to the cocaine after each visit.

For all her kindness, Miss Mary could not have divined that her second request was both a blessing and a curse. I would always seek the opportunity for Watson's company, of that there is little doubt, but to see him so obviously happy with another was something akin to torture. It was clear that she did not realize this; she had only thought to make her husband, and by extension me, happy. But such kindness is a two-edged sword. Do not misunderstand; I did derive enjoyment form the visits, infrequent though they were. Miss Mary is a delight to speak to and has a sharp mind as well as a sharp tongue that she is unafraid of using. It was when I re-entered my rooms at Baker Street that the loneliness threatened to crush me and I succumbed to the siren song of oblivion promised by the needle.

For a time we passed in this manner. I continued to drag Watson into dangerous situations as well as suffer through the more dangerous situation of having tea in his home. I was content, for the most part, to allow the status quo to continue until one afternoon, Watson arrived at Baker Street in a state of nervous agitation. It took some urging on my part to calm him enough so that he could relate what had sent him into such a state. And then he made the announcement that sent my world crashing down around me.

Mary was pregnant.

End Ch. 3

A/N: *giggles insanely* Hmmm…guess I should have mentioned that I was insane before you got into this, but, oh well, too late now!

Watson's Marriage Count: Baring-Gould proposed that in 1884 Watson traveled to America and wooed one Lucy Ferrier before returning to England in 1886 and marrying her. According to Leslie S. Klinger, this is based on the play _Angels of Darkness_ but most scholars, he says, do not credit this as a reliable source. I have used the "fact" that he married before Mary Morstan for a reason; you will find that out in the next chapter. I did not, however, use Lucy Ferrier, but just made up a random woman. She's only mentioned once so she is no Mary Sue, have no fear.

Reviews are always appreciated!


	4. The Rescue

A/N: Thank you guys for all your lovely reviews. It's definitely what keeps me motivated! And now we have chapter 4 and we are once more back to Watson. Let's just see what Mycroft and Lestrade have to say about this whole business. And just what secrets are the doctor hiding?

Disclaimer: Does this truly need a disclaimer I wonder? Can anyone truthfully claim these wonderful characters?

Chapter 4-The Rescue

July 30, 1894

Today was my last day in England. I boarded my ship and turned my back on the only true home that I have ever known. While I know that it is best for all those involved my heart still weeps. Now that I am aboard, I find myself in dire straits with nothing whatsoever to distract me. It is for that reason alone that I have decided to continue this when my first impulse was to throw it overboard. Still, if it will keep my mind from contemplating those darker roads that it has so often traveled in the past, I will welcome it.

I must confess that I recall very little of the ride across London, for I had given myself wholly over to the shock that had descended down upon me. I fear that I must have worried Lestrade a great deal because when we finally stopped, he kneeled in front of me, taking my face between two chilled palms. "Don't wonder off, eh Doctor? You just stay right here and I will be back so quick you'll barely notice I'm gone."

I nodded slightly in acknowledgement and he eased me back against the cab seat. I must have drifted off, or away considering my state, but it was just as the police inspector promised. I had hardly noted his absence when our carriage rocked under the entrance of another who possessed considerably more weight than the lean Lestrade. Roused, if only momentarily, from my stupor, I found myself captured under the grey gaze of Mr. Mycroft Holmes. I opened my mouth to speak, what I do not know, but the elder Holmes held up his hand.

"Rest for now, Doctor. There will be plenty enough to speak on when we reach Pall Mall." And with that he dismissed me, turning to engage Lestrade in quiet conversation. Having been released from this obligation, I sank back once more and allowed the sway of the cab as well as the low murmurs of my two companions to lead me away from reality, if only for a time.

All too soon we reached our destination. Mycroft descended first to pay the driver before standing aside to allow Lestrade to help me from the cab. With Lestrade at one elbow and a surprisingly gentle Mycroft at the other I was practically carried inside. There was a blur of activity around me, too much for my overwrought brain to process. When I dared to allow reality to intrude once more I found that I had been wrapped in an overly large dressing gown and a thick rug was tucked tightly around me from my shoulders to my feet. There was a large fire blazing in the hearth and though the chair I was in had been placed quite close I felt none of its warmth. I continued to shiver and began to wonder, if I could not stop, would I simply not shake apart?

"Ah, I see you are back with us, Doctor. Lestrade was beginning to become a bit frantic." That cultured bass drew me from my contemplations of the fire to see Mycroft just across from me. A bit of rustling to my left identified Lestrade even though he did not speak.

"There is no need to worry on my account," I returned, though it would have taken keen ears to hear it over the crackle and pop of the burning logs.

Mycroft's eyebrow ascended that great forehead slowly. "I believe that you should allow us to be the judge of that, Doctor, for you are in no fit state to do so."

Silence reigned for a moment as Mrs. Jenkins, Mycroft's housekeeper, entered with a well-laid tea tray. Cups were delivered into our hands though when she came to me she found that mine were shaking so badly I could not doubt she feared that I would burn myself. Instead, she placed a sweet biscuit in my grasp and encouraged me to take a bite even as she placed my tea within easy reach. Nodding in satisfaction as I began to nibble, she retreated as quietly as she entered.

Even as she left, the silence lingered and I was grateful for that, for I dreaded its end. They would ask me what had transpired at Baker Street and I knew with absolute certainty that I could not relate that yet. The mere contemplation sent an extra violent shiver down my spine and caused my breath to quicken within my breast.

"No, Doctor, we will not ask you the details." Mycroft's accurate interpretation of my thoughts was of little surprise to me, but I saw Lestrade start rather badly. He must have been unfamiliar with this aspect of the Holmes's traits or just unaware that it was shared between the two brothers. Given the number of times that Lestrade had spent evenings at Baker Street, he could not have been wholly unaware. Despite all the other thoughts that were rattling through my scattered mind, I could not help but wonder how these two had come to know one another. Mycroft was a man of singular, but regular, habits that for the most part were confined to certain circles. Lestrade, as far as I was aware, was far outside those circles. His sphere more easily fell in with the younger Holmes brother than the older.

"My brother has done something incredible stupid." Those resonating tones once more drew me to the present and I lifted my head from my breast to stare at the elder Holmes brother. "Your condition, along with the words spoken to Lestrade, confirm that." He sat his cup aside and steepled his fingers in a way that was so reminiscent of his brother that my breath caught in my throat and I had to turn away. Astute as always, Mycroft immediately deduced his error and rose slightly to reposition himself.

Lestrade grasped my shoulder. "All right there, old boy?" I could not answer, for the police inspector had inadvertently squeezed the shoulder that Holmes had struck. A cry of agony burst from my lips as angry lines of pain scorched down my entire arm and across half my chest. My hand twitched and the cup that I had only just grabbed slipped from my weakened grip and shattered upon the carpet at my feet. Both men were at my side in an instant and amid my continual protests and moans, the two succeeded in baring me from the waist up.

"Sweet Mary, Mother of God," Lestrade whispered and Mycroft suddenly moved off, ringing the bell.

"It can't be all that bad," I panted, but I was unsure of who I was trying to convince more, myself or the inspector.

Lestrade's reply was to lift the silver serving tray and hand it to me. With the aid of its polished surface and the flickering firelight, I was finally able to view the damage that had been wrought upon my person. I could hardly believe my eyes. A great black bruise spread from my shoulder joint half across my chest and part way toward my elbow. But how? Just how long had I been wondering the streets after The Incident? I hadn't believed that Holmes had struck so vicious a blow as this but it was very possible that the shock of what occurred in that sitting room prevented me from feeling the extent of the damage at the time. Not any longer, as I discovered when I tried to make a fist. New agony washed over me and some small part me wondered if Holmes had not done some nerve damage.

"It looks like someone laid into you with a club, Doctor," the little man commented as his eyes remain riveted to my arm.

"Not a club but a well-shod shoe," Mycroft corrected as he returned to us bearing a cloth filled ice and a new tea cup. Setting the cup aside, his finger traced the mark. "This is the heel here. No doubt if we were to compare it to Sherlock's it would be a match." As he spoke, he gently laid the cloth bag across the bruise. A sharp intake of breath at the pressure and then an elongated hiss as the cold began to seep in followed. Both men were silent once more as they continued to gaze upon the damage inflicted by the unofficial consulting detective. Finally, restraint failed Lestrade and he sprang to his feet, marching for the door.

"Where are you going, Inspector?" Mycroft demanded, halting the other in his track.

"I am going to arrest Mr. _Sherlock_ Holmes for assaulting the doctor. Perhaps some time behind bars will remove his head from his ass!"

"That would be most unwise, Inspector, so I would suggest that you return to your seat." The inherent command in Mycroft's tone could hardly be ignored but Lestrade remained stubbornly in place.

"Unwise or not it should be done. But if you will not give me leave to do so, sir, perhaps you will give me leave to give your brother the sound thrashing that he deserves!"

Mycroft pointed to the chair. "Sit, Inspector, and calm yourself. My brother will receive his just desserts in due time, but for now our energies would be better focused on Dr. Watson."

For a moment I feared that Lestrade would ignore Mycroft and do as he promised, whether that was to arrest Holmes or thrash him within an inch of his life, or perhaps even both, I could not be sure. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and blew a great breath through his nose before stalking back and throwing himself into his seat. "So then what _are_ we going to do?" he demanded, his narrowed gaze fixed upon the elder Holmes. Mycroft did not answer but instead focused his attention upon me.

"How much did you manage to save, Doctor?"

"A little over a thousand pounds."

Again Mycroft's eyebrow climbed upwards. "Much more than I expected you could manage. Nevertheless, I will triple that. It will be a good start for you."

Lestrade watched this exchange with puzzlement-clouded features. "What the devil are you two on about? Thousand pounds? Triple that? Good start? What does it all mean?"

Mycroft once more seated himself across from me and turned that penetrating, hawk-like gaze on the Scotland Yarder. "Do not think for one instant, Lestrade, that Dr. Watson portrayed himself accurately in his stories. He is much more intelligent and has a rather realistic gift of foresight. I sought him out not long after my brother mentioned him to me, admittedly some two years after they had established themselves in Baker Street. Naturally I made some inquires into his history and general character." A twitch of smile. "I am afraid that I can be somewhat protective of my younger brother and when he spoke of the doctor, there was decided admiration in his voice. Not two days after I had completed my own line of investigation did I read the astonishing tale titled A Study in Scarlet." He paused, seeing the blush rise in my cheeks. "I speak only the truth, Doctor. Imagine my amazement when I discovered the story and that very afternoon everyone at Whitehall was enquiring as to whether or not that was my brother." His lips twitched again. "Everyone was quite atwitter for some time after. But it was not the case of Sherlock's that interested me, but, rather, the one who wrote it. You, Doctor."

"I hardly understand why you found me so interesting," I murmured, once more nibbling on the sweet biscuit.

Mycroft let out a short laugh. "There, you see, Inspector? He is still attempting to hide. No doubt it has become second nature to him." Seeing Lestrade's confusion, the elder leaned forward. "It is just mere trifles, but so important when you put them together. The doctor is very much the man you know, minus a few pertinent details: his intelligence, his foresight, his own deductive reasoning and his love for my brother." He paused to take a drink from his tea, waiting, no doubt, for some reaction to his proclamation. My breath froze in my chest at his last words, hardly able to comprehend this betrayal on top of the last. Would I forever be abused by those who bore the name Holmes? Seeing my stricken expression, Mycroft hastened on. "The love for my brother you had already guessed for yourself, Lestrade, but the rest could conceivably be a bit of a shock."

My breath exploded from my and I twisted, though it was painful, towards the inspector. "You knew? But-but how?"

Now the inspector appeared to be somewhat embarrassed as he shifted about before he finally met my gaze. "I have seen all sorts in my line of work, Doctor, as you no doubt have as well considering who you lived with. I once investigated a murder down on Brixton Road. Not really the sort of thing I would have consulted Mr. Holmes on, but he wasn't very well known then. You see, the young son of Lady Bywater had been stabbed through the neck." He mimed the move. "A hat pin as we later found. It was a young maid who found him in the sitting room when she went to light the fire in the morning. He had been stabbed the night before and bled out rather quickly. The alarm was raised and we were called in." Here he paused to take a long drink from his tea.

"We were met by the lady of the house and I can say with absolute truth that I have never met a more stone-hearted woman. She seemed to care not one wit that her son had met such a ghastly end in her own sitting room. The servants were showing more remorse! After questioning each of them, I learned that the young Lord Bywater had a good friend he called upon often and whom called upon him. The Honorable Randall Heartly. Apparently he had been out with Heartly the evening of his death and returned quite late. I, of course, went to question Heartly at once. By all accounts, the gentleman in question was a lively fellow that took great pains to entertain Bywater. He was kind, well-mannered and full of energy that he chose to share with his much shyer friend."

"That was not the gentleman I found. When I called upon Heartly it was to find someone so broken in spirit that they might no longer be called a man. The poor wretch was in front of the fire, wrapped and bundled so tight I doubt he could move. He answered my questions readily enough, but it was that dull, flat tone that sent chills down my spine. And when I saw his eyes, I knew some truth of the matter. Bywater and Heartly had been lovers." Here he paused again and met my gaze steadily.

"I knew at once that this poor devil could have no more lifted a finger against Bywater than I know you could have against Mr. Holmes. I sent the constable out, telling him that I wanted him to do a thorough check around both houses for if it was an outside source it was very well possible that Heartly was the next victim. The poor chap bought it and I dare say I didn't see him for some time. Once I was sure he was gone, I confronted Heartly about the true nature of his relationship with the victim. Any color that he'd had in his face vanished in an instant and he was lucky he did not faint right then and there. Still, it took some brandy to revive him enough to tell me the truth and what little more he knew of the matter. Apparently young Bywater feared that his mother had discovered the truth about Heartly and him. He told Heartly that his mother had wished to speak with him upon his return from his outing. That was why there were out so late. Normally, he assured me, they returned to their respective residences by eleven unless they, uh, decided to spend the entire evening together."

Here Lestrade colored a bit. I could feel my lips wanting to turn up into a smile, but I did my best to repress it. I wondered if Lestrade had ever given any thought on what two men could get up to when alone.

"They had always spent those evenings at Heartly's who had no relatives close at hand and kept very few servants. Bywater's mother was an unforgiving creature with a will of iron and would do her utmost to destroy Heartly if she should ever find out about them. I asked him if he thought she would do the same to her son." Lestrade leaned forward. "He looked me straight in the eye and said 'She would do worse,'" He frowned and shook his head.

"I left him, but gave strict instructions to his butler to make certain that he was never left alone at any time. I was very afraid that he would do himself harm. With what he had given me and a closer look at the body, I was able to obtain a warrant. It was a hat pin, like I said earlier, only the lady was still wearing it, even with her son's blood on it." He took another drink to fortify himself for what came next. "When I asked her why, she told me that she could not abide by living with such unnaturalness, nor could she allow it to continue. Never in my life, sir, have I wanted to strike a woman until that very moment. She spoke about her son as if he had been an unwanted dog!" There was a growl in his voice that I had only heard once before and that was when he'd wanted to strike Holmes for what he had done to me.

"We had barely gotten her loaded up when a maid came running down the lane towards us. I recognized her and I knew, even before she opened her mouth, what she was going to tell me. I took off before she could reach us and when I arrived I found…" He paused and leaned back, covering his eyes as if to block the image. "I found that poor sod had scattered his brains all over his bedroom."

Lestrade fell silent and neither Mycroft, nor myself, were immediately inclined to disrupt it. It was the inspector who finally did so, clearing his throat to bring our attention back to him. "After that day, I've made it my business to keep an eye out on those who shared similar interests, so to speak." He turned to me. "I'd say it was the third case we worked together when I knew something was amiss. I recognized that look in your eye and the way you watched Mr. Holmes when he wasn't looking. My gut told me right then and there that you would be the one that needed looking after should something go wrong."

"And you were correct," I assured. "Quite the Cupid's instinct you have." I lifted my head from its reclining position. "But how did you two come together on this matter? I wasn't even aware that you knew each other."

"Our partnership is quite recent in comparison to yours and mine, Doctor." It was Mycroft who answered. "I was on my way to meet with you when I found the inspector lurking outside your home."

"I was hardly lurking!" Lestrade protested. "Merely keeping watch over the good doctor."

Mycroft kept a straight face but I thought I detected a twinkle in his eye. "I found him lurking and immediately deduced the reason for it. That is why I dispatched a note to you, Doctor, to inform you I would not be present for our lunch engagement. Instead, I believed that the time might be better spent questioning the inspector."

"Questioning my ass," Lestrade muttered almost too quietly for me to hear. "More like the bloody Inquisition if you ask me."

"Not anymore rigorous than you with your suspects, I am sure, Inspector." Mycroft's comment caught us both by surprise—there was little doubt that those keen senses were inherited!—and Lestrade had the decency to blush at having been heard. I could not suppress a breathy chuckle before turning back to the elder, silently willing him to continue.

"As the matter was and is an extremely delicate one, I had to make absolutely certain of the inspector. When, at length, we were speaking on the subject, we devised what Lestrade should do."

It took only a moment for even my slowed brain to make the connection. "You asked for me to become a police surgeon." I had not meant for it to be an accusation, but Lestrade took it as such.

"A job you are uniquely qualified to fill. I've seen your work, Doctor. You speak for the dead when they can no longer speak for themselves. A body is not just a body to you, but a person still even if it no longer draws breath. You tend to the lads with a gentle hand and a stern voice, warning them to be more careful." He offered a small grin. "You always had a different way of looking at a situation." He blinked then frowned. "Now that I think about it, that was really you, wasn't it?"

"I let myself out a bit more when I thought he was dead, yes," I admitted.

"But what was Mr. Holmes speaking of earlier, Doctor? Seems you two had a plan of your own."

"I believe that I should start," Mycroft interjected. "Once the upheaval at Whitehall quieted, I contacted the doctor discreetly in the guise of a new patient. When he was sufficiently lured from Sherlock's side, I was able to make my own judgment on if what I believed that I had garnered from my reading to be true. I must admit, however, that it took the entire dinner for me to be able to do so." He cast an admiring glance in my direction and Lestrade sent an astonished one. I was mortified to sense the burning in my cheeks again, but some part of me felt that it was justified. It was quite difficult to earn the admiration of Mycroft Holmes, any Holmes for that matter, but it seemed I had managed to do just that.

"I was put on my guard," I reminded him and Mycroft nodded.

"With good reason, for why should the brother of your good friend and roommate draw you into a meeting under false pretenses? No doubt you smelled a rat at the time, but you seemed willing to humor me in order to find out what it was that I wanted. I was rather surprised that you accepted my invitation of an after-dinner brandy."

"It was because you are his brother."

"I had thought as much, thank you for settling that one point of uncertainty for me, Doctor." Mycroft paused to take a sip of his tea. "Once I had managed to convey to the doctor that I knew just how deep his affection for my brother ran, it seemed as though a veil had lifted from him and I was allowed to see the doctor as he truly was. He was a very weary man. A man who was beyond burdened with his secret," he paused, hesitant, almost, in his next choice of words. "But the man I see before me now is beyond that. He is broken."

I did not deign it necessary to confirm or deny, for to deny would be to lie and the truth was plain enough. I had had enough of lying to last me an age and before I could halt my tongue, a confession spilled from lips.

"Yes, you are right, on all accounts. Then I was merely weary of concealing my secret from him and it weighed heavily upon me at all times. I relieved the pressure somewhat by my writing up his cases. You wonder why I am not the same man as the one I present to my readers. Simple enough. I am not the hero, he is. Within those words I could allow some of my love to shine through! When that was not enough, I would do my very best to take care of him, keep him safe, even if that meant from himself! But I had to be careful, always careful, for he could not know. I lived in nearly constant fear that he would find out. It finally built to the point that I could stand it no more and I set out to remove myself from his presence. The only way I could foresee in doing so was to get married." I stared at the fire, unwilling to see what expressions I had engendered in my audience.

"No man has sinned more than I, for I stood before God and Church and pledged my love to a woman I was only passingly fond of. Oh, in time I grew to love her, but there was never any passion behind it and if he had ever given any indication that he returned my affection, I would have gladly and easily left her behind.

"While I grieved at her death in that terrible carriage accident, a part of me was secretly very relieved. Diana was not overly fond of Holmes. In fact, it seemed that at times she resented him and I know made it very uncomfortable for him to visit. I wondered, after her death, if she sensed more in my friendship with Holmes than I had intended. She certainly made it her goal to keep us apart as often as possible!

"My return to Baker Street was both a delight and a catastrophe. I was once more in his presence and I no longer had a wife's skirts to hide behind. That added with the grief, though mainly the former, sent me into a very dark place. But he," I swallowed, my trembling hands kneading the rug clutched in them, "he pulled me from it as neatly as if it were something he had to do often. I was once more under his spell and this time I was determined that I would win over it.

"For a time I managed but I felt that pressure building once more. My chronicling of his cases reached its height and even my continued practice, although somewhat reduced, was not sufficient enough to distract me." I closed my eyes. "And then came Mary."

"You met her during that Sholto business, eh?"

"I did. To her, at least, I was truthful when I stood before the alter. I did love her, but if my love for her was like a single candle in a dark room, then my love for Holmes blazed like a forest on fire. Still, she was my hope and the savior of my sanity. She was even fond of Holmes and secured a promise from him to visit our home once a month for tea. How she managed to do such a thing, I know not, but whatever promised she secured, he never broke it. At least, not until he went after Moriarty." I spat the name with such venom that both men shifted uncomfortably.

"He should have known that going after that Master of Crime would bring about far-reaching consequences to himself and those around him. Perhaps that is what he wanted, I cannot be certain any more. All I know is that the result was nearly an end to me as it was to the professor." Now my voice was barely above a whisper and the other two leaned forward in order to hear.

"I stood upon that ledge with his note clutched in my fist, his alpine stock at my feet, and nearly let myself fall. I was already dead, what difference would it make?" I fingered my tea cup, tipping it perilously to the side. "Just lean a bit more and…" My tea cup crashed on its side, spilling the remaining contents and dregs out. "I could have joined him at the bottom. I wonder what he thought as a voyeur to my grief. Did he know how close I came? Did he wonder, in the following years, how often I held my service revolver to my temple and fired, imagining a bullet was in that chamber and that I had scattered my brains across my study or consulting room?" I tried not to notice the police inspector shiver at my hollow laugh. No doubt he was disturbed by the resemblance to his own tale. "I imagined him inspecting the scene of my death and coming swiftly to the conclusion before looking upon my corpse and shaking his head. 'Passion, Watson, like grit in a finely tuned machine. You let them rule you and see what has happened? Cause and effect, my dear fellow, cause and effect.'"

Now it seemed that neither was willing to utter a sound and it was only the crackling of the still merrily burning fire that pervaded the room. 'Do I frighten them?' I wondered. They now had a clear idea of exactly what my love for the consulting detective would drive me to do. They had a solid case of not letting me from their sight, but I had learned a few things from the detective and I would escape if it was necessary. For the time being, however, I was content to remain where I was, for I could not summon the energy to move.

"Well then," Lestrade eventually interrupted the silence though I thought I detected a distinct strain to his voice. "What exactly was it that you two decided?"

"Dr. Watson already had two plans in place when we met," Mycroft explained when it seemed I had run out of words. "The first he has already mentioned: marriage. The second was an escape."

"An escape?"

"He would save his money and should all else fail or it come to this," he gestured to me, "then he would flee from my brother."

"But where would you go?" The inspector looked at me.

"I have not given it much thought to be honest. Part of me believed that if I did so, I would commit some act that would necessitate leaving." I closed my eyes. "I do know that I cannot stay in England, or anywhere that he is likely to find me. The farther away, the better."

"Though I don't like the thought of you leaving, Doctor, I will help you in any way that I can," Lestrade pledged, laying a hand on my uninjured shoulder.

"You can help, Lestrade, by heading to Kensington and packing the doctor's things." Mycroft commented.

The inspector glanced down at me and I nodded in conformation. "There is not much that needs to be done, Lestrade. In my wardrobe you will find a bag and at the foot of my bed, a trunk. Both are sufficiently packed for the purpose, you need not worry about gathering more. The rest in the house is entirely superfluous and you may do with it as you wish."

Lestrade nodded and, after a quick squeeze to that same shoulder, gathered up his coat and hat. "Consider it done. Where would like them delivered?"

"To the train station. I still have time to catch the last one."

Those thin brows furrowed over dark eyes. "You sure it wise to leave so soon?"

I offered him a bitter smile. "The sooner the better."

The other man nodded reluctantly and left.

"Where do you intend to go, Doctor? You need not hide your thoughts."

Those last words drew a harsh laugh from me. "Hide my thoughts from a Holmes? I believed that to be entirely impossible."

"I have little doubt that the only reason my brother was ever able to deduce any of your thoughts is because you allowed it. Perhaps to maintain his false image of you? I never did understand why you wish to hide. That is a very hard life."

"It is and I do not think I shall ever be able to explain it to you. But, forgive me, Mycroft, I spoke out of turn. I have no quarrel with you."

"Despite how I hid the fact that Sherlock was alive these last three years?"

My lips twitched towards a parody of a smile. "You did so on his request and I could never expect you to break the confidence of a brother. Even in regards to myself." I glanced in his direction. "I trust my secrets, as does your brother and so many others, to your discretion. The whole of the Empire would likely collapse if even a fraction of those came to light."

"While I do believe you exaggerate, my good doctor," Mycroft shifted ever so slightly at my compliments, "it is not on the state of the Empire that my concern now lies."

"Do not worry yourself, sir, for I am unworthy of it."

"A debate, Doctor, for another time, for now I am feeling somewhat stirred to do as Lestrade wished earlier and deliver a sound thrashing to my brother!"

I shut my eyes to block out the conjured picture of Holmes in all his glorious fury as he stood over me. So much anger, as though he were possessed by the devil himself. My unnatural desires had done this and ever after would I serve penance for them.

"Please, Mycroft, I beg of you. Do not trouble yourself any more over this matter. You have already gone above and beyond the duties of a friend and I would not have you put yourself out any more."

My pleas were met with narrowed eyes and I knew that, without a doubt, if there was one person in all of England, if not the world, that could make trouble for Sherlock Holmes, it was his brother.

"I will grant your request, if you will grant me one in return."

"If it is within my power."

"It is. I believe that you have packed your service revolver among the items that you had Lestrade retrieve. I would like you to turn it over to me."

For a long time I allowed the silence to hang between us. Though for the most part I lingered in an apathetic state, the request sparked a flicker of anger deep within my breast. Even that spark, however, could not survive the overwhelming apathy that rolled through me, snuffing all else in its wake. What did it matter that I gave him my revolver? If need be I could easily obtain another. Mycroft no doubt knew this so this request was double-edged. He was asking me not to end my life.

"I will turn it over to you, but that is all I can promise you, Mycroft. It will have to be enough."

End Ch. 4

A/N: Wow, that was a looooong one. And I wouldn't let myself start on it till I finished the chapter on Holmes. I am trying to stay three chapters ahead to keep myself motivated, but nothing motivates me like the reviews you guys give me, you're the best!

Side note: A Study in Scarlet was originally published in 1887 not 1883, but since this is obviously an AU I get to screw with the time line all I want. Yeah!

Reviews are appreciated! Coming up next, we are back to Holmes!


	5. The First Plan

A/N: I have noticed something as I am writing this. Holmes's voice in my head is just not sane. I think that should be taken into account. As for Watson, he seems to have shut down emotionally and fallen into a deep depression. Gee, I wonder why? My updates are a bit slower as the voices are being decidedly silent at the moment. Still a few chapters ahead though.

No disclaimer: Public Domain!

And now, back to Holmes.

Ch. 5-The First Plan

23, July 1894

The memories of those moments have sent me once more to the cocaine. Part of me wished that I had simply overdosed on the vile substance and ended my wretched existence, but some survival instinct still dwells within my breast and prevented me from taking too much. When the stupor of the drug passed, I found myself drawn to the journal, urged by some demon from within to continue this confessional.

My life as I knew it came to an end when those words passed Watson's lips. Mary, pregnant? I laugh now to think that, at the time, I felt the burning desire to ask when and how this had happened. Such an absurd notion, but instinctual. Betrayal followed swiftly on the heels of shock. How? How? Irrational though it was, I was horrifically angry at the both of them, but more so at Mrs. Watson. Now I curse all the terrible thoughts that I heaped upon her head. Mary Watson was a paragon of womanly virtue and all womankind should strive to be half of what she was. She did not deserve the abuse that I silently called down upon her. She did not deserve the hate that I secretly harbored deep within my heart.

Watson left me, citing various tasks that needed to be attended to, not even realizing the devastation he had wrought. One simple announcement had brought me from that cold, calculating machine he once related me to, to an irrational, illogical being overrun by his emotions. I collapsed under the weight of my reaction and remained prostrate upon the couch before the fire. Mrs. Hudson attempted to appeal to my stomach in order to garner, if nothing else, at least a negative response, but the notion of food caused that organ to clench and I turned away. No doubt she blamed my lethargy on the cocaine bottle and I was certainly not going to correct her, but I could not gather myself enough to retrieve the Morrocan case from my desk drawer. The mere thought of moving sapped what little energy I had left and it was not long before I drifted off to sleep.

When I woke, I felt even more wretched than I had before. Blasted emotions! This is why I hated them. They positively paralyzed me and drove me to some rash action, but this time I would not allow it! I would triumph over these petty feelings; they would not control me! I just needed a new direction in which to point my attention. I stumbled to my bedroom in order to address the matter of my toilette and it was as I was washing my face that my eyes fell upon the solution to my problem. There, laying open upon my nightstand, was one of my catalogs. The name Moriarty fairly leapt from the page and in that instant a plan sprang forth nearly fully formed in my mind. I snatched up the book, regardless of my still damp hands, and scanned the entry. Yes, this would do perfectly. Moriarty had been allowed to linger too long in the throne of London's Underworld. I had only nipped at his heels before to be a nuisance, but now I intended to hamstring him before going straight for his throat.

I shut the book and went about finishing my toilette. My effort, while I had little doubt would be successful, could conceivably cost me my life. That, at least, was acceptable to me. I was not afraid of death, could not be in my line of work, but Moriarty might have a mind to go after Watson and that I could not allow. It was essential, then, that I cease all contact with him and his household. It would be easier in the end.

For the next two months I devoted all of my attention on systematically dismantling Moriarty's kingdom of crime. I knew that I was making an impression when I was nearly run down by a carriage and my food was poisoned no less than three times. I had the attention of the Napoleon of Crime and he was very unhappy. I was deep in an experiment that would aid in resolving matters in my latest case when Mrs. Hudson announced that I had a visitor. I raised my head to order her to turn the person away when my gaze lighted upon Mary Watson just two steps behind my landlady.

Seeing that my attention had been sufficiently captured, she asked, "Shall I bring up some tea, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, thank you." She nodded, leaving the two of us to stare each other down. It was Miss Mary that braved to break the silence first.

"I do hope I am not interrupting an important matter."

"Nothing that cannot be repeated at a later date," I assured as I rose from my chemistry set and directed her to a seat.

"That's good. I'm glad." The awkward silence that followed was practically suffocating us both and I thought briefly about opening the window before dismissing the idea just as quickly. The air out was particularly foul today and I had no wish to allow it to invade my sanctuary. Instead, I silently bade Mrs. Hudson to hurry with the tea, for then, at least, I would have something to focus on.

"It has been some time since John and I have enjoyed the pleasure of your company," she ventured in an effort to dispel some of the tension that lay between us. "You have been missed."

"Yes, I have been quite busy of late. My cases have kept me from calling on you both. For that I must apologize, ah!" My landlady was a welcome sight as I had no want to pursue this line of conversation. Still, I knew that it was only a temporary reprieve, for once Mrs. Hudson had departed, Miss Mary turned on me once more.

"Is it your cases, Mr. Holmes, or the fact that I am expecting?"

My entire body stiffened at the question and I nearly lost control of my tea cup. Let it never be said that Mary Watson is not a perceptive creature. It was she who saw my love for Watson even when the man himself had not! And yet again, any false pretenses I might hope to raise were demolished by her. But how could I answer such a question? It was not so much a question as an accusation! I saw Miss Mary's expression soften, no doubt perceiving the nerve that had been struck.

"It was not a move to drive you away. It was purely chance that John and I were blessed with this gift. But we would not want it to keep you from us, from him."

I clenched my shaking hands around my tea cup before deliberately sitting it back upon the table. Mrs. Hudson would never forgive me if I broke her favorite set. This was going to call for drastic measures.

"Mrs. Watson, I am going to ask you a question and though it may sound a bit absurd, I want you in all earnest to take it very seriously." Once I had her full attention, I pressed on. "Answer me truthfully: do you love your husband?"

"Yes!"

"And you would do everything within your power to protect him and your unborn child?"

"Of course."

"Then you would do well to keep them both as far from me as possible, otherwise you may find yourselves in the gravest of danger."

For a long time Miss Mary stared at me with only the ticking of the mantle clock to break the silence. I tightened my entire body to keep from fidgeting under her stern gaze.

"You once said there is always danger in what you do. How is this different?" She questioned carefully.

My fingers danced over the tablecloth, the energy of my body no longer allowing for total confinement. "This time it is considerable and I would not see harm come to any of you on account of your association with me."

"Then we are already in danger. The friendship between my husband and you is well known."

"But by the cutting of those ties any evil attention that I have drawn will not cast an eye your way." At least, I hoped. Another pause and from the corner of my eye, I observed her head drop to her breast, fingers clenched around her gloves. Her distress touched me, but I steeled my nerves lest I give in. This was what needed to be done, for their sakes as well as my peace of mind.

"You are quite decided then?" she asked, raising her head once more.

I tried not to notice her wavering tone as I turned to meet her gaze. "Quite."

"Then there is nothing more that needs to be said." Rising from her seat and pulling on her gloves, she paused with her hand on the door knob. "Except, perhaps," our gazes met again, "that we want you to be safe. Take all precautions. We would both be devastated if…" Here she trailed off and with a final nod left me to my thoughts.

The tea I had drunk turned in my stomach and I hastily replaced my cup once more on the tray, lest I give into the urge to hurl it across the room. What I had just done was distasteful in the extreme but completely necessary. I did not believe, however, that I would be able to repeat the performance with Watson. The best course of action would be to absent myself from Baker Street as much as possible. There might come a time when a confrontation between Watson and myself, followed by a separation, was necessary and for that I had to be prepared.

But I was not. How I thought anything should prepare me for that moment that I would be forced to leave Watson, is beyond me. Another two months passed and I had succeeded in bringing the Napoleon of Crime to his knees. With his empire in ruins and the Yard in control of sufficient evidence that ensured all would be hanged, Moriarty had nothing to lose. His goal became the ending of my life and as any rational creature that possess an ounce of survival instinct, I ran. It was not in panic that I did so, for as I have stated previously, I had some inkling that this would end with my death. I ran in order that our final battleground should be one of my choosing.

And I brought Watson as my witness.

Any reason that I would give for subjecting my friend to this cruel fate is inadequate at best and horrid at its worst. What shames me the most is that it was the thought of being separated from him by death without having him at my side just once more was too difficult a fate to bear.

The sound of him screaming my name over the roar of those blasted falls still haunts my dreams. The agony of that cry reflected all the anguish that lay within my own breast and for half a second I contemplated the thought of us running away together. A quick glance up, however, revealed that the danger had not passed. High above Watson and me was Moriarty's lieutenant, Colonel Moran. The tiger-hunter was lying upon on his stomach, the air gun I so feared aimed directly at my Boswell. The half-formed cry died in my throat when I saw him glance my way. His meaning was clear. If I informed Watson that I was still alive he would be killed.

So I could do nothing but lie there and watch grief overtake my dearest companion. He remained behind, even after the authorities had conducted a brief and clearly unthorough search of the surrounding area. Even if their conclusion was erroneous, why should they think otherwise? If I had survived, none would have held Moriarty's death against me, for even now I bear some of the marks of that desperate struggle. I had no reason to run; at least, none that they were aware of and surely I would not leave my friend in such a state. I saw one of the officers speak briefly to Watson, even though he gave no response, before patting him briefly on the shoulder and hiking back up with the rest. My Watson made no move to follow.

My Watson! What right have I to name him such? What claim do I have upon him after I have mistreated him in such a manner? And to think I was unaware that I could be crueler. Now I know that I had not yet scraped the bottom of my black heart. But I am getting ahead of myself.

It was only the knowledge that I held his life in my hands that kept me from calling out to him and ending his grief. Each moment that he remained was like a knife to my heart and yet I could not bear the thought of him leaving. Despite the nightmares that I knew it would produce, I drank in the sight of him, committing every detail to my memory. Whatever I suffered from viewing his grief over my death would be my penance. I would welcome the punishment with open arms and wish to increase it a thousand-fold for the harm that I have brought to my beloved Watson. It was no less than I deserved.

Those horrid minutes where I struggled with the professor were nothing in comparison to those that followed. Watson staggered to his feet; he had sat at the base of that rock for more than two hours now and it was growing quite dark. My note was practically crushed within his fist and to my mounting horror he was making his way _toward_ the edge of the falls instead of away! A cry once more rose in my throat and it took every bit of my will power to suppress it. If I called out to stop him I condemned him to death! But if I did nothing it now seemed very possible that he would throw himself into that yawning chasm in order to join me in 'death'. I held my breath and prayed to every deity that I knew, including the Devil himself, that Watson would pull back and not succumb. I do not believe that I breathed again until he stumbled back and crumpled against that rock like a puppet whose strings had been cut. My sobs of relief matched those in his grief and it was some time before either of us could pull ourselves back together. Once I had regained some measure of composure, I looked down to see my faithful companion gather my silver cigarette case and my alpine stock before finally making his way back up the hillside. I sent one last prayer for his safe return before I became too preoccupied with my own survival to give his another thought.

I am not totally certain as to why Moran did not shoot either Watson or myself that day. Perhaps, in Watson's case, it was because my dear friend was completely ignorant of anything that might be used against Moran. Perhaps he just did not wish to waste the bullet that he intended to use on me. Either way, my friend escaped unharmed by the villain who now focused his entire attention upon me. And yet, it was not bullets that came my way, but rocks. I wondered if his gun had jammed when he attempted to fire or if he thought this would make his "hunt" more challenging. Whichever it was, I was heartily glad that he was on my heels and not Watson's.

It was many harrowing hours later that I was able to stop and catch my breath. I had little doubt that Moran was still on my trail, but I had placed enough distance between us that I might pause and plot my next move. Returning to England was out of the question, for I could not place Watson in that sort of danger again. I would need to keep running, put as much distance between my beloved and I as possible.

And so it was. Once I had established my safety to some degree, I contacted Mycroft and informed him of my continued existence. I secured from him the promise that he would keep a careful watch on my doctor and do his utmost to allow no harm to come to him. In return, I performed a few small international jobs entrusted to me by him and, in my spare time, did my best to secure the trap around those of Moriarty's empire whom had initially escaped my first. Within two and half years I had succeeded and all had fallen at my feet save one: Moran. Perhaps he had tired of the hunt or, more likely, he waited for me to succumb to the siren call of my home. I knew that none of my acquaintance was safe until I had bagged my tiger-hunter.

I returned to England without informing my brother of my intention and established myself in a bookshop not a stone's throw from my Watson's practice. The first time I laid eyes on him in over two years brought both joy and sorrow to my heart. He was as thin as when I first met him all those years ago and limping just as badly. I never understood what happened with his leg. I do know that he was struck in the shoulder and that is what removed him from the battlefield, but the one and only time I broached the matter of his leg, the expression that crossed his face was so frightfully dark that I hastened to change the subject. From then on it was merely another war wound and one that he never let slow him down. Now I could see every part of him was moving as though he were a man twice his age. It was a wonder he could instill any confidence in his patients in his condition.

Had I done that? Had my death brought my doctor to this low? If it was not the chief cause, then it was a contributing symptom. I knew, through Mycroft, that Watson had lost Mary a mere two months after his return. A miscarriage followed by hemorrhaging and the poor Mrs. Watson bled out before anything could be done. The stalwart doctor buried his wife and child next to my headstone, as I was told, and I was unaccountably touched by the gesture. Ever the romantic soul, my Watson. He told my brother it was so that I could keep an eye on them, keep them safe. I shall not speak of the tears that were shed when I read this, but I snatched up a pen immediately and implored my brother that if he ever loved me, he would keep Watson safe, even from himself. There was nothing holding him from that proverbial edge now and I was too far away to do anything but hope. Mycroft was as good as his word, but at what cost?

Watson halted not far from my position and leaned against a nearby gas post. To most it would seem as though this gentleman had stopped to watch the great swarm of humanity as it buzzed and flew from one place to another in a great mash of confusion, but I knew my Watson. The thin shoulders slumped under a coat that now fairly swallowed him whole. At this close a distance I could see that his hat was unbrushed and the mud that was splattered over his shoes was from the East End. This caught me by surprise. Why on Earth would Watson have business down there? Surely not to indulge in opium or one of the other dens of vice that ensnared and destroyed so many others. This thought caused me momentary panic and I was on the verge of revealing myself when Lestrade strode up and clapped the doctor on the shoulder in greeting. From their conversation, I learned that the two were working on a murder case together in the East End and it was with a sigh of relief that I remembered my brother mentioning that Watson had become a police surgeon. I was thoroughly appalled at first. Why should Watson ever waste his talents in Scotland Yard? I knew that he was far cleverer than he let on in his stories to the public and the thought of him partnering with the likes of _Lestrade_ made my blood fairly boil. It was some time before I could calm enough to look at the situation with a rational eye. It was a good thing that Watson had taken up the post of police surgeon for it was something that would keep him occupied and under the eyes of those who were not completely unobservant, for all my protestations otherwise.

The second realization was much more damning. In the years that I had been absent, I had attempted to master my deviant feelings in regards to my doctor so that, upon my return, I would be able to enjoy his company free of this burden. I sought and pursued every avenue at my disposal to this end and believed, until that very moment, that I had had some measure of success. If these confounded emotions were this strong now, how would they be when our meeting was face-to-face? I would inform Watson that I was alive, there was never any doubt in that, but now I would have to hold out hope that he would turn me out on my ear once I had done so. It would certainly not be any less than I deserve. Actually, I deserved a good and thorough thrashing first, but in his current state it was entirely unlikely that the doctor would be able to deliver one himself.

Perhaps he would ask Lestrade; they seem to have become good friends in my absence. I will _not_, and I swear upon this paper now even if none shall ever see it, allow Lestrade to think of Watson as _his_ doctor. I shall make certain that his face has a swift and painful meeting with my fist if he should ever even contemplate the notion. Believe me when I say that I will know if he does!

I abandoned my pen for an hour after writing those last few lines. Despite their glimpse into my dubious mental state, I cannot summon the will to blot them from this account. As loathe as I am to admit it, it was how I felt at the time and still, to a great extent, do. It is absolutely abhorrent to my nature to admit it, but I had and still have no control over these emotions. And because of that lack of control, I have destroyed not only myself, for I sincerely doubt I will live much past the end of this confessional, but the most wonderful person I have ever had the benefit of knowing. If that is not a crime that should see me swinging at the end of a rope, then I do not know one that should. Ah, a rope-------------

End Ch.5

A/N: Allow me to reiterate. Holmes is not entirely sane. I have discovered also, in writing this, that I am telling two separate stories so to speak. Watson tells you of the incident and what follows. Holmes, currently, tells of the events leading up to it. If it will move past that…*evil grin* that's my secret. *cackles*

This is great practice not only in writing on a regular basis, but in the novel that I want to do about these two. Half the time my brain is invaded by that soooo, oops. It will be done in journal style, much like this, only solely from Watson's point of view, I hope.

Reviews are always appreciated and a shout out to all that have so far! You guys are the best.


	6. The First Destination

A/N: Do not panic, I know this chapter is short but I have finished the next chapter of Holmes and it should be up in a day or so. It was the Watson chapter after Holmes that was giving me a headache. But he finally spoke up and now I can give this to you. :D

No disclaimer: Public Domain!

Ch. 6-The First Destination

2 August, 1894

I disembark in an hours time and as I am entirely prepared, I am once more left with nothing to occupy me but this sad account. With an eye on my watch, I shall endeavor to begin how I came to this point in my journey.

Mycroft allowed me the use of his lavatory so that I could freshen up before my journey and I must admit that it did go some way into reviving me. Still, I had to make do with my present attire even though I was fairly itching with the need to remove the offending garments. They smelled of Baker Street, of _Holmes_, despite everywhere else I had been today and it was unlikely that any nose but mine could detect the lingering scent of my former friend's tobacco. I paused mid-button. Former friend. That is what Holmes was now. I would never again be able to listen to his violin playing, or watching any of experiments, or experience the thrill of the hunt when I accompanied him on a case. But what triggered those damnable tears once more was the thought that I would not be able to simply _be_ with Holmes any more. Indeed, it was very unlikely that I would return to England at all once I had left it. There was too much here that had and would cause me pain and kill me far quicker that any bullet. Some would no doubt brand me a coward for running, but how can a man be a coward when he is attempting to save his sanity? At this point, however, I was uncertain that it could be saved.

"Doctor?" Mycroft's questioning tone brought me back from my maudlin contemplations and I hastily attended to the rest of my dress before facing him. "We must leave now if you are to catch the last train."

I nodded and accepted the proffered bowler graciously. In my haste to vacate Baker Street, I had left both my hat and coat behind. Luckily my spare medical bag was among the items that Lestrade had gone to retrieve, for my other remained where it had landed, its contents no doubt spilled all over the sitting room floor. That is, if Holmes has not chucked it out the window. If he has done so, hopefully there was no one passing beneath the window. The last thing anyone needed was to be skewered by my scalpel.

With nothing but silence to fill the void between Mycroft and myself in the cab, I was forced to finally give some thought to where it was I wished to go. I was entirely truthful when I stated that I had not given any thought to this part of my plan with the irrational hope that I would never have to implement it. I snorted at that thought. Hope. Holmes was correct when it came to the matter of emotions. They had certainly gotten me into this mess and if I was ever to climb out again then I would have to learn how to control them.

A contemplation for another time. I wrenched my thoughts from their wanderings and returned them to the matter at hand: my first destination. I was not naïve enough to believe that my first choice would be my last for if anyone did care to pursue me, I would need to muddy the trail as much as possible. Part of my aid in that matter could be found in my luggage. I had not lived with Holmes all this time and not learned a bit on the subject of disguises. I had assisted in more than one application as well as listened to Holmes expound upon the proper technique one must employ. I am an apt pupil and meant to show it when Dr. John Watson got on the train but did not get off again.

It was as I was mentally reviewing the persona that I would adopt when our cab came to a halt outside the station. There, waiting with me trunk, was Lestrade. He was decidedly anxious if the amount of cigarette ends littered around him were any indication and I can practically feel his sigh of relief as we descended from the cab.

"Worried, Lestrade?" I could not help but ask as soon as we were close enough. "Or are you contemplating something more sinister?" The dark scowl that creased the inspector's face showed me it was the latter. I could only hope after my departure that he would not make trouble for Holmes for I do believe the consulting detective could and would return the favor.

Some of my worry must have shown for the Yarder blew out one last great cloud of smoke before tossing the cigarette among the others. "Already secured you a compartment, Doctor, and bought your ticket." When I opened my mouth to protest, he held up his hand. "Please, allow me this, Watson."

I released a small sigh of my own, but then found that I could smile. "Thank you, Gabriel. You have been a good friend, one which I will sorely miss."

The little inspector cleared his throat (was that faint pink on his cheek?) and reached inside his coat to produce a package. "Then perhaps you will accept this from your friend as well. I had purchased it as a Christmas gift. A bit early, but I couldn't pass it up. Seeing as how you're leaving, you might find a good use for it."

Though faint (for all my emotions were still muted at this point) my curiosity was aroused and I tore into the simple brown wrapping. Its contents proved to be a large, handsome, black leather journal. I allowed my fingers to graze over the surface, lingering on the engraved golden hound head.

"It reminded me of you." Now Lestrade was clearly embarrassed as he shuffled self-consciously under my astonished gaze. "And you might have need of it in days to come," he added lamely.

"Thank you again, my friend." The gratefulness that coloured my tone only served to embarrass the man further. It was as I was brushing my thumb over the hound's head that my first destination sprang to mind.

"Five minutes, Doctor, before the train departs," Mycroft reminded us, jolting me from my thoughts and Lestrade from his embarrassment.

"Right." Tucking the journal securely in my borrowed coat, I held out my hand to the elder Holmes. "Good-bye, Mycroft. It has been a pleasure."

"Do not hesitate to write, Doctor. I will make certain it is not found. You can expect your payments at regular intervals."

I nodded my thanks and turned to Lestrade. "All the paperwork on our last case is locked away in the bottom drawer of the desk in my consulting room." I passed him the key. "I am glad that I am not leaving you in a bind."

"Even if you were, you wouldn't have to worry," Lestrade promised. "I'll take care of everything at the Yard. Now hurry! You'll miss your train!"

With this final farewell I left them, availing myself of the compartment secured by Lestrade and the silence that it afforded me. I waited until my ticket had been checked before drawing the shade and removing my valise from its hold. It was in this bag that the first step to my freedom would be secured. I would make John Watson disappear and allow Godric Jameson to emerge. A simple, but well-traveled gentleman, born and bred in the country, who had some knowledge of medicine, but was escaping the fog and soot of London. It was a role that I had practiced somewhat infrequently in the past but was confident enough that I could, despite my condition, perform well.

As to my destination, I had to thank Lestrade for it was his gift that prompted my memory. It was years ago that the first invitation was made but I had received several renewals of the offer since. It was high time I took up Sir Henry on his offer and returned to Baskerville Hall.

End Ch.6

A/N: Short, I know, but it honestly doesn't fit well with the next chapter. They begged to be separate so…Anyhoo as soon as I can get Holmes's journal typed up, you will have it presented for your reading pleasure. Now I am off to immerse myself in Jeremy Brett for surely no one portrays Holmes as well as he.

Important Point: As the editor's choice, Leslie Klinger placed the Baskerville case during 1889. For my purposes, I place the case during 1887, six months after the death of his wife. Klinger places wife number 1's death in December of that year, but I say January. You know, in case any of you were curious. You will understand why when we reach the next chapter of Watson.

Reviews are always appreciated and what keeps this story alive!


	7. Bad Timing

A/N: Er…a little later than I wanted due to work but still, here it is! We are finally boiling down to the moment where Holmes will tell us why he did what he did. But I am entirely serious when I say that he is not sane.

No disclaimer: Public Domain! 

Ch. 7- Bad Timing

24 July, 1894

Confound that Gregson! I have made it quite clear to Mrs. Hudson that I wished to receive no visitors and yet that bumbling oaf barged in here despite her protests (I could hear her clearly down the hall) and demanded that I turn my attention to a case! A case! What in the blazes do I care about a case! Should not the ruinations of my life and Dr. Watson's be clear for all to see? Was it even possible that he does not know what I have done? No matter, as I sent him back out the door as quickly as he entered it and with burning ears I'll wager. Since he roused me from my stupor, I suppose I shall continue.

For six months I lingered as the elderly bookseller, far longer than I originally intended, but my tiger-hunter was elusive. I would need him to commit a crime that was not connected to me so as to have him believe it was the crime that drew me back home and not Watson. Even then I feared he was in danger and I knew that I would not draw an easy breath until Moran was safely in Scotland Yard's clutches. When the news of the Adair murder reached my ears, I grinned fiercely behind my disguise, unfortunately scaring away the few customers I had managed to attract, but I cared not. My tiger had slipped and now all that need be done was to lay the trap.

It was time to return to Baker Street.

I am afraid that I gave poor Mrs. Hudson a terrible fright when I let myself into the flat, but there was honestly nothing I could do to prepare her. Nor was I prepared to realize how much I had missed my redoubtable landlady during my three year absence, but the smell wafting from her kitchen combined with the warmth of the fire she kindled had done much to ease the lingering ache of homesickness that plagued me.

It was not until she asked after the doctor that I realized how much his continued absence from my side was the worst hurt of all. It was like a raw, festering wound and everything around me that only moments ago had brought comfort, now poked at that wound like an angry child. I am afraid that I was rather churlish with her and by her expression I could deduce that she was most displeased that Watson did not, as yet, know of my continued existence.

"If you wish to have my help this evening, Mr. Holmes, then I suggest that you fetch the doctor to your side once more. I dare say you have a great deal of explaining to do." Her expression softened somewhat, losing its stern edge. "That is, if he will return to your side. If I may be so bold, Mr. Holmes, you will be a very lucky man if the doctor forgives you for this."

(Since the incident I have wondered why the good lady has not poisoned me. While I am certain she is not in full possession of the details, I was quite loud and the effect that it had on Watson obvious. Perhaps it is because I have barely eaten since that day.)

With those few words she had come straight to the heart of my current problem. How was I going to tell my Watson that I still dwelled among the land of the living? I may be branded a coward, but the thought of him turning me away before or even after I was allowed to explain made me wish I had not returned to England at all. I wanted Watson's forgiveness as much as I wanted him by my side again, but what right did I have to expect either?

None.

Nevertheless, if I wished to see this plan through then it would be necessary to master my courage and confront my much wronged companion. I donned my bookseller persona and hustled down to the courts where I was sure to find Watson this day. Some inner part of me was laughing hysterically (and not altogether sanely I am afraid) at the maneuvers of Fate when it came to placing Watson as the police surgeon attached to the Adair case. Was it happenstance or was there some higher power out to force my hand in the situation?

Pah! I am indeed turning into a sentimental fool!

I listened in on the inquest and felt my blood boil at how they dismissed Watson's theories so casually and callously admonished him to keep his mind to facts, not fancies.

As if that pompous ignoramus could distinguish between the two!

But Watson seemed to take it in stride which led me to believe that this was not the first time that it happened and he did not believe it to be the last.

It would be if I had my say!

I lingered as the crowd dispersed, arranging it so that I might run into him. I had intended to lure him to my book shop but when the time came, I panicked. I was unforgivably rude to him despite his apology and his retrieval of my books. Bless Watson's gentle soul for he was not put out in the least and bestowed an apologetic smile in my undeserving direction before hailing a cab. I listened carefully to his destination and returned to my book shop. I could not return to Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson's disapproval when she learned I had failed. Best if I used the time to rally myself together for the second, and successful I promised, attempt. It would be better, I reasoned, if I made my reveal away from the eye of the public and on his own ground. I would rather avoid a scene if at all possible and if I could not, then better it occur in his consulting room.

And what a scene. The showman of my soul should be locked away forever considering the reaction that was wrung from my Watson by my unnecessarily dramatic reappearance. I have witnessed my dear companion face down the worst dregs that our society has produced with a steady eye and even steadier aim. To see him faint upon viewing me for the first time in three years shocked me. I rushed to catch him before he hit the floor and clutched him to my chest, secure in the knowledge that he was unaware of what I was doing, berating myself all the while for my theatrics. Honestly, what had I expected? Considering what little I had been able to deduce about his health, I should have anticipated this reaction. Still, a chill swept through me as I was allowed to observe my Watson up close for the first time since our separation.

The handsome face was creased with far more lines than I remembered and the hollowness of his cheeks accurately dictated the state of his appetite. As I had already noted, he had lost a great deal of weight, but now that I could focus my full attention, it was far worse than I had first imagined. The suit he wore, which I recognized as one he donned during his consulting hours, nearly swallowed him. I wondered at the state of his finances—could he not afford a new one?—but then dismissed the idea when another, far more accurate (if disturbing) theory presented itself.

Watson had always been most careful with his appearance, striving to appear as ever the respectable, professional English gentleman. No other before him, in my mind, had ever done so well in achieving this goal, more so because of his genuine nature. That he should allow himself to descend into such a state (wrinkled, ill-fitting, stains on his cuffs, waistcoat, and knees, mud splattered over his shoes—again from the East End!) allowed a window into the disparity of his mental health. My eyes squeezed shut and I found it hard to swallow when I reached inside his coat and found that I could count every rib despite the layers of fabric. With one finger, I traced the outline of his hair, noting that it had receded another centimeter and a half. At his temples I counted no less than eighty-six white hairs to add to the fifty-four I observed in his mustache. My heart, the curse of my existence, wept to see this dramatic change in my dearest friend. I would make it my goal, I vowed then, to erase as much of this as possible and restore him to his former glory.

Had I but known that I was capable of far worse the Reichenbach, I would have left that very moment and never darkened his doorstep again. I should have allowed Moran his victory and seen my life ended by that air gun! But then, hindsight is always presented with the utmost clarity.

As it was, I rose to retrieve the brandy flask from the pocket of my costume when a frame atop the mantle caught my eye. Drawn to it by some indefinable curiosity, I found myself both elated and deeply horrified to find that it was the note that I had written to him at Reichenbach. Elated that my last words were so precious to him and horrified that he should keep an item, a mere trifle, that I had no doubt caused him pain daily. My whole body clenched as I clutched the frame to my chest, reminding myself how to breathe lest I join the good doctor in unconsciousness. Once I had regained sufficient control, I replaced the frame and set about reviving my companion.

I could not help but revel in the obvious joy that my reappearance brought to Watson. Many of the wrinkles that I had counted, catalogued and despaired over, vanished in the intensity of his smile and I was heartened to see color return to those too pale cheeks. I basked under the rapt attention that he paid to my tale, his eyes obviously taking in every detail of my appearance. I wonder what it was that he saw that day.

I often find it slightly disheartening to read Watson's stories of our cases together. Not so much for their inherent romantic tendencies, though I have chided him more than once on that point; I am aware that their format _was_ that of a story and not to be found in a lecture. Rather, they were made for a study in literature. No, it was not for their romanticism, but for the role that he placed himself in. He was never just a student of my methods, but my partner in an agency of two. More than once I had toyed with the notion of having my calling cards reprinted to include his name. Where I understood how the web of clues, such little details, came together, my Watson understood matters of the heart and his medical prowess was unrivalled, in my opinion. Should he have applied himself to the furtherment of his career, I have little doubt that his name would now be among the top doctors of England, if not the Empire. But because he does not hold any great desire for advancement, he remains a general practitioner. In that realm, however, he flourishes and, for him, the joy it brings far outweighs the pain and frustration. It was his connection to the people that he helped that made it all worthwhile.

But what had his connection to me brought, I wondered, even as I put forth what was most assuredly the best performance to date, rivaling even that of the Culverton Smith debacle. I exaggerated my travels and failed to mention how his absence had been like a festering knife wound, when my greatest want was to fall to my knees before him and beg his forgiveness. Begging for anything, especially forgiveness, is not something I am ever inclined to do, but for Watson, I would have done so without shame.

But I need not have worried for he forgave me! My Watson forgave me! It was all I could do not to reach out and pull him to my side, but I do have some self-restraint. All at once the tension drained from my body—he forgave me!—and I found it difficult to keep my eyes open. My ever observant Watson saw this at once and insisted that I indulge in a nap before the night's work—which he would be joining me in!—and I consented readily though I was rather adamant on the point of sleeping in his consulting room. From the paperwork that was but half-finished on his desk, I knew he would remain there for some time. He immediately agreed, less inclined to be parted from me than I from him and I soon dozed off, tucked under a thick rug, to the soothing sound of his pen scratching away.

The night's events unfolded much as I predicted, though I will admit that my near strangulation at the hands of Moran was not, but Watson saved the day. So my tiger-hunter fell for my bait and I was once more free to do as I pleased. My first mission was to bring Watson to Baker Street with me, partake in the wonderful repast that my dear Mrs. Hudson has prepared (making certain that Watson ate more than his fair share), and persuade the good doctor to spend the night. It was all together a simple plan and one that I executed with perfection. During the day, Mrs. Hudson had endeavored to make our rooms inhabitable once more (even going so far as to make up Watson's room) and she was entirely successful. That night I was allowed the first peaceful slumber I could achieve in three years.

Despite the euphoria that seemed to encompass the household, I was somewhat ill at ease. The other hammer had yet to fall and I wondered, once the amazement at my return had vanished, what Watson's true reaction would be. None could deny that he had the right to be angry, but he had yet to exercise it. Any time that I was alone (which seemed to be only during my hours of sleep) I often found myself pondering every possible scenario and plotting my own reaction to it so that I might stay in control of the situation. Those contemplations evicted sleep from my being and it would often be many hours before Morpheus was allowed to lay his claim upon me.

The first, and most likely scenario, was that Watson and I would engage in a physical brawl. Watson is a man with a formidable temper, as he warned me upon our first meeting, and when that sleeping bull pup is roused, he is a magnificent sight to behold. And no less a formidable opponent. In the past he and I have engaged in numerous sparing matches. I am reluctant to admit that I claimed victory in just over half those matches. In those tales that Watson shares with the public, he expounds upon my physical prowess in numerous areas, but fails utterly in even mentioning his own.

Another scenario could be that he would seem to grant forgiveness, but in the end we would fail to achieve the closeness we had both enjoyed in the past. Instead, the distance would remain an infection between us. Since neither would be willing to address the cause so that it might be healed, we would drift apart and eventually out of each others lives.

But it was the last scenario my mind conjured that so often occupied my thoughts. In an instance of brave stupidity, I would reveal the feelings that I had so long harbored for him. He would reject me, repudiate our friendship and cease all contact with me.

It was that train of thought that stole my appetite and any notions of sleep.

So I tread carefully. I measured every response, continued to agonize over my scenarios, and waited. The waiting I found to be most irksome. I wished to settle this matter between us, but could not summon the courage to broach the subject. Watson may extol my bravery for his readers, but in matters of the heart I am an utter coward.

Watson, I observed, was equally reluctant to approach the matter but I was certain that he was aware of it. It was in his hesitance to join me for dinner, the slowness of his laughter, and the absence of his touch. The tension in the weeks that followed my return was enough to try even _my_ nerves. I would find, at the oddest intervals, that Watson would be watching, not speaking, just watching. The effect that it had upon my person was most disconcerting. Part of me wished to understand what was troubling the good doctor because though I once thought his face an open book to my deductive powers, I now found those pages to be frightfully blank. It was my want to understand so that I might act. Another, more irrational part, wished to wring the answers from Watson and ask why it was that he bloody well stared so much!

When, at length, I felt matters were coming to a head, I set out on a stroll of London, refamiliarizing myself with my city and discovering what had changed in the years of my absence. My feet carried me on their own while my mind examined this problem from all angles. While Watson visited every evening, he had not asked to share lodgings once more. But he was relieving himself of his patients, though I doubted he would be very successful in that mission. As I have stated previously, Watson's qualifications and skill as a practitioner are unquestionable, and inspired loyalty in the patients under his care. So long as he did not move too far away, they would retain him as their physician. But would he be able to maintain an active practice if he returned to Baker Street? Why had he not asked to return? Or, for that matter, why had _I_ not asked him to? He continued to accompany me on cases but the unspoken language we once shared seemed to have faded from our memories.

It was during the fifth such stroll that I forced myself to have a mouthful of dinner at a small café on the Strand. This situation must not continue! I could no longer allow us to dwell in this wretched limbo. If I was to see our friendship repaired then I would have to be the one to take the first step. Since it was I that had caused the situation in the first place, it was my duty to see it the rift mended. It was my wretched emotions that muddied the waters between us worse than the Thames and I would have to marshal them so I might convince Watson not only the sincereness of my apology, but the truth behind it all. I _would_ explain why I had acted in such a manner, _why_ I had allowed him to suffer all those years and reveal the true extent of my feelings in regards to him.

It was decided.

It might be regarded as a hasty decision, but after nearly two months of this, I could no longer keep my heart to myself. I had to try. What I would do should my heart be broken, I did not know, but suffering as I was, as we both were, was no longer tolerable. He stared…oh how he stared! Those wondrous green eyes that used to shine so bright…now so dull…It was the only way! Either this would end both of our suffering or only plunge us deeper, but it had to be done!

My step was decidedly lighter upon my return to Baker Street. I was dismayed when Mrs. Hudson informed me that I had a client. He would not delay my talk with Watson, at least, not overly much. I would dispatch him as quickly as possible and return my attention to the more important matter at hand. As I bound up the stairs, I was calculating what I wished to say to Watson, but when I through open the door, I was unprepared for the sight before me.

Watson, it seemed, had ended his rounds early that day and at present was entertaining my client.

My _female_ client.

End Ch. 7

A/N: And now, it seems, we are reaching the bottom of his problem. Still not sane, and I am decidedly evil. I am not convinced he has a good reason. But does anyone ever have a good reason for breaking someone's heart?

Reviews are always appreciated! You guys keep me going!


	8. Baskerville Hall

A/N: I am totally evil. *sighs* Anyway, on to this chapter. Be aware, this chapter has two flashbacks that occur in two different time frames. All this stuff has already come to pass, Watson is just telling us about it.

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Ch. 8-Baskerville Hall

My hotel room overlooks a busy thoroughfare. Any other traveler might be thrilled with such an excellent view afforded to them of this illustrious city, but I am not. The sounds are too familiar and if I were to shut my eyes I can just imagine my dearest friend seated in the chair opposite my own, clay pipe between his teeth, violin haphazardly thrown over one knee as he idly plucked at the strings, mind clearly occupied with a pretty problem. This is the picture that I so desperately cling to, for it quiets that part of me that would simply break down and weep continuously for what I have lost. But I cannot. All my tears seem to have abandoned me and except for a constant ache centered over my heart, I am utterly numb. The change of scenery that I made from Dartmoor to Paris seems to have not made one wit of difference. In truth, I am uncertain that I gained anything from my visit to Sir Henry except the notion to come here and one who, next to Lestrade and Mycroft, I might count as the staunchest of allies.

On my journey to Grimpen, Dartmoor, I switched trains no less than six times and was obliged to reside at a local inn twice. At last I witnessed the land giving away to small patches of bog and rock that told me I had entered Dartmoor. Even as the train rolled to a stop in the station, I began to doubt my course of action. Was it wise to revisit a place that held such terrifying memories for me? Nothing could ever match those of Reichenbach, but the events of this case were certainly enough to induce nightmares, especially those hellish minutes with the hound.

It was as I stood upon the platform with my trunk at my feet contemplating exactly what I should do, when Fate decided for me. I had heard the bark of a dog as I passed through the cars of the train, and again when exiting it, but so lost in my worries was I, that I failed to register it was coming closer until the creature was pawing at my trouser leg.

"Spencer! Down boy!" A voice cut through the crowd of disembarking passengers and I glanced from the spaniel to see his master hastening to make his way to us. "I am terribly sorry," the man said as he reached to scoop up the whining beast. "I don't know what has gotten into him. He usually remains at my side." His head came up and I was presented with the wide grey eyes of Dr. James Mortimer.

"It's quite all right. There was no harm done, young sir." I replied, reminding myself that I must retain my new character.

Wrapping the leash tightly around one hand, he held out the other to me. "Still…oh no! He has ripped your trousers!"

Indeed, a quick glance down revealed the small imperfection. "It is a mere trifle, young one, I assure you."

But it seemed that my reassurances were of little use as the man was somewhat distressed. "Please, sir, I should pay to have that fixed."

I pointed at him with my cane. "You shall do nothing of the kind! It was an _accident_, young one! Your little fellow here was just a bit enthusiastic, that's all. He could have been inclined to snap at my heels, but he did not, so I see no cause for worry."

My firmness and general air of good humor finally filtered to the young medical officer and he held out his hand once more. "Dr. James Mortimer, sir, at your service. If you will not allow me to have that repaired, perhaps you will allow me to drive you to your next destination. I have a dog cart waiting for me at the inn."

"Godric Jameson, young Mortimer, and how do you know that the inn is not my destination?" Seeing the others crestfallen expression, I could not help a small chuckle. "Worry not, I am only teasing you, lad. I will be happy to accept a ride if it will appease you. Lead on!"

Silence fell between us as we turned in the direction of the inn. Perhaps it is here that I should explain what I had done to myself as far as becoming Mr. Godric Jameson. The first night I laid over in the inn, I began my transformation by shaving my mustache and cutting my hair much closer to my scalp. Despite my slowly receding hairline, my hair has always been exceptionally thick so it was that, despite its shortness, my scalp did not shine through. I darkened what remained till it retained the color of pitch. I was dismayed to discover that little was needed to age my face (should that be contributed to recent events, as well as not so recent, I am uncertain), nevertheless, I whitened my complexion with a powder and with another darkened the bags under my eyes. Thinning my eyebrows and brushing color into them followed. Another powder, applied with the thinnest of brushes, deepened several of the wrinkles that had sprung up at the corners of my eyes. My light grey trousers and waistcoat were traded for a dark tweed suit and lush pine green scarf. The last two items to complete my deception were a sturdy walking stick and tinted glasses. My eyes, I have been told, are a very distinguished shade of green. But what most would consider a remarkable feature, I regarded as no more than a nuisance, and so in the building of this identity had acquired several pairs of tinted glasses. If asked, I would merely remark upon my sensitivity to light which had become so severe that I was required to wear them at all times. The walking stick was one I had, thankfully, purchased during Holmes's absence, though as Godric I had used other in the past. This one was my favorite, a deep mahogany in color, it was twisted in shape, but thick enough to conceal a sword within. I will admit that at the price I paid, I stole it out from underneath the pawnbroker's nose, but the man simply did not know the treasure that he possessed. A simple band of silver rounded of the separation of the wood as well as concealing it. To glance at it, no one would suspect that a sword lay within its misshapen depths. With a bit of practice I was once more able to use my uninjured arm to support me. As myself, I had always used my left arm, despite my war wound, as a means of support for my left leg. It was not the correct way one should use a cane, but I always felt more comfortable having my uninjured side unhindered. Perhaps I offered a spectacle to others for my choice, but I cared not. Now, thanks to Holmes, I no longer had that option, at least, not at present. It was just as well I had made certain I could walk both ways, for despite his absentmindedness, Mortimer had a trained medical eye and would have spotted a fake at once.

But he suspected nothing, I discovered, as he assisted me into the trap after loading my trunk aboard. "And so now, Mr. Jameson, where would you like me to take you?"

"To Baskerville Hall."

I must have shocked the man quite badly for the reins nearly slipped from his fingers. It was only at the last moment that he was able to catch them. "Baskerville Hall? But that is my destination! Do you know Sir Henry then?"

"We travelled together in America for a time before he received news of his inheritance. Just before his departure, he bade me to visit when I happened upon England once more. It wasn't until I decided to take an extended holiday that I remembered his invitation and thought to drop in on him as a surprise. But tell me, young Mortimer, is it far from here?" My question seemed to snap the man from his thoughts and he soon whipped up the horse, setting a fast pace along the road to our destination.

I was in a bit of a panic, for I had not taken into account that Baskerville Hall might also be Mortimer's destination. I could only pray that Sir Henry's memory did not fail him and he recognized his most unusual visitor. Despite his initial shock, Mortimer recovered quite well and began a discourse on the area, pointing out various locations and landmarks upon our route. Thanks to the practice I have had with Holmes, and various insufferable colleagues of my acquaintance, I had developed the skill of appearing to be totally engaged while in truth only lending half an ear. As it stood, I was familiar with most of this information, so I did not feel entirely guilty. Instead, my mind drifted to that time in '87 when I first met Sir Henry and was embroiled in the case that I oft refer to in my mind as The Hound of the Baskervilles.

I was rather shocked, at first, that Holmes would not immediately wish to pursue the case. It offered all of the particulars that he would be unable to resist. Citing a case of importance that required his full attention in London was an obvious ruse to me. Since Diana's death, I had been involved in nearly every case that arrived at our shared doorstep, and, if I was not, then I was aware of it. We had only wrapped up our latest case the day before when Mortimer arrived and entangled us in this horror tale. For whatever reason, he could not be seen in Grimpen, Dartmoor, but by having me accompany Sir Henry, availed upon me that he _knew_ there was danger in this business. He was trusting me with not only Sir Henry's safety but the task of maintaining his ruse. Oh, no doubt, he was in London at one time or another, but I could not bring myself to believe that it was there he remained. If I knew Holmes's methods, he would use my presence to enforce the illusion of his absence for what reason would I have to lie over his location? Then, after a bit of research in London, he would follow us to Dartmoor. It was where he would choose to conceal himself that most concerned me for the most logical place would be upon the moor.

I had so convinced myself of this fact that when we learned of the escaped convict, I grew very concerned for his safety and wished that he would not venture from London until the fellow was caught. A foolish wish, but heartfelt. Even though I was aware that I was slowly working myself into a case of nervous agitation, I could not stop myself. I had hoped that I was concealing my state well, but that was utterly dashed by Sir Henry.

The room I had been given to occupy during my stay was luxurious and, I must confess, far grander than those I occupied in Baker Street, but it was too lonely for my tastes. Baker Street was home and, despite my marriage, always had been. It was because Holmes was present. He was home and being separated from him as I was, was enough to blacken my mood considerably. It were those thoughts that so distracted me that when a glass of whiskey appeared suddenly before my eyes, I started rather badly.

"Easy, old boy, it's just me," Sir Henry assured as he dropped into the chair opposite mine and sipped his drink. "Considering how you've been moping about lately, I debated between a brisk walk and getting stinking drunk." He gestured to the large decanter at his elbow and offered a small smirk. "Getting drunk won out."

I raised my glass in salute and emptied its contents in two large gulps, relishing the burn. Sir Henry silently refilled my glass and watched as I gave it the same treatment as the previous. "So…do you wish to let it out?" he wondered aloud as he refilled my glass a third time. "Or do you simply want to drown it?"

I peered down into my glass, unwilling to meet his gaze. "It would be best to drown it, I assure you."

The American cocked his head to the side. "If you say so, Doctor, but I can't see why you would want to."

I felt my lips turn downwards and my grip tightened around my glass before I gave into the urge and downed it as well. At this rate I would likely slide right out of the chair. "Oh, and why is that?" Really, I could almost hear Holmes's sarcastic snarl seeping through my own voice.

The look of exasperation that was bestowed upon me was so great I was certain the man believed I was being an overly dense imbecile. "You have just as much right to miss your lover as any other, old man !"

My breath froze within my chest and I was inflicted with a horrible sense of déjà vu. Though audible, my voice did not rise above a croak. "And who is my lover, sir?"

Sir Henry slammed his fist on the arm of his chair. "What the hell is wrong with you? _Who is your lover?_ Well who else but Mr. Holmes?"

My glass hit the carpet and despite my less than sober state (three glasses of whiskey on an empty stomach was never a wise idea) I managed to stagger to the window. Fumbling with the latch, I was eventually able to throw it open and take in deep gulps of cold air, preventing myself from being sick right then and there. Still, I hung my head out and gagged once or twice for good measure. Sir Henry was not long in coming to my side.

"Watson? Good God, man, are you all right? What did I say?"

Once I was certain my stomach would remain in its place, I allowed Sir Henry to guide me back to my seat. When I bent to retrieve my glass he knocked my hand away and glared. I acquiesced and sat back. Soon enough the mess was cleared away and a cool glass of water was shoved into my hands.

"Now," he continued, once more placing himself across from me, "care to explain that display? I had thought you were made of sterner stuff."

"If I were made of anything else you would be nursing a broken nose for insinuating such a thing!" I shot back.

His dark brow furrowed. "Then you are ashamed of it?" he ventured.

"I would never be ashamed of it! I would consider it the highest honor to be his lover. But I am not." What began as a shout, ended in a whisper and I rubbed my temple where already the beginnings of a headache were building.

The look of honest bewilderment that Sir Henry gave me was nearly comical. "But, why not? I mean…" he coughed, a blush rising in those still tanned cheeks. "Aren't your interested?"

"There is a reason I was married."

A curious habit of the American's I had observed during my brief stay was his tendency to flush completely red when angry or extremely embarrassed. Where it had only been a faint stain before, it now blossomed blood red. "I—I am sorry, Doctor, I…that is to say I…"

I waved his apologies aside and directed him back to his seat from which he had arisen, no doubt to depart hastily in an attempt to save face. "No, my apologies, but the subject is a very delicate one," I hesitated just a fraction before adding, "and painful."

"I don't understand."

"I am not sure if you are aware, Sir Henry, but inversion is considered a crime. If you were to be suspected of it, even if nothing could be proven, you would find yourself suddenly dearth of all those you might have considered friends, your reputation in ruins and very possibly your freedom in jeopardy. Any enemy you may have acquired, however inadvertently, will step forward to speak against you. There shall be no one whom you can turn to, for they will either be disgusted or in fear of their own safety." My eyes were fixed upon the portrait above his head as I spoke, unwilling to meet the others no doubt horrified expression.

"If you did not perish during your two year sentence at Reading, then the best you might hope for after your release is to simply disappear for none will welcome your return. This is why it is a delicate subject." I lowered my gaze and locked eyes with my captive audience. "It is a painful one because despite the danger and humiliation, I would gladly risk it all for him."

Silence followed my proclamation and I could see, by his inward gaze, that Sir Henry was contemplating all that I had imparted.

"Is Mr. Holmes unwilling to risk it then?" he finally asked after some minutes.

I shook my head and turned away once more. "Holmes has always shown great disdain for the 'softer' emotions. To him, they are not but a hindrance and distraction to a finely-tuned mind such as his. No, Sir Henry, it is I who hold back. While I am willing to risk my reputation and freedom for him, I would not risk losing Holmes should my feeling not be returned. I have watched and waited, hoping for some sign or signal—anything that would give me cause to believe my feelings were returned. I have waited, but I despair that I shall ever see one. So I left to marry in the hopes that my ardor would cool. But there is truth in the saying that absence makes the heart grow fonder. The longer I was away from his side, the more I ached." I closed my eyes and rubbed fiercely at my forehead in the hopes of stemming the rising throb behind my eyes.

"Then Mr. Holmes is either blind or a total fool!" The American declared, jumping from his seat to pace in a tight circle around it.

"And why is that, sir?" My voice was low, but translated how vexed I was by his slander.

Sir Henry either did not notice or did not care, for he threw up his hands with a cry of disgust. "If he cannot _deduce_ the obvious devotion and love that you have for him then he _is_ blind, sir! As blind as a mole! And if I may be so bold—if he cannot love a man such as yourself, then he is a fool." He marched till he stood before my chair and looked me square in the eye. "I would be proud, Dr. John Watson, to have a man like you at my side." He reached out and gently captured one of my hands in his own, kneeling down on one knee. "I know that at present your heart belongs to him, but if you will let me, I would like to try and win it for myself."

I was quite speechless after he fell silent. He wished to win my heart? Was it even mine to give any more? Where had this come from? It was true, we had become good friends in the weeks that I had resided with him at Baskerville Hall, but such a dramatic move in so short a time? I warred with myself, for while I was fond of Sir Henry, I did not know him that well. Was it even possible for him to turn my heart away from Holmes when it had belonged to him for so long? Did I want him to? My existence was a lonely one, true, but could I abandon my dear friend once the case was complete and remain behind? The American struck me as a man who would covet his beloved, but would he also treat me as an equal? He was a passionate man, if only in a different manner than Holmes. All the questions that circled through me only served to plunge me into a deeper depression. I could not do this; I could not make a decision, not when I felt so utterly wr etched.

I squeezed the ha nd that held my own. "All me some t ime to think? This is rather sudde n and I do n ot wish to be too hasty in my de cision." The other nodded and rose to his feet. As he we nt to release my hand, I suddenly clasped it tight. "I cann ot pr omise, Sir He nry, that shold I say yes to your p rop osed courtship, that you wi ll succeed. My heart ha b elonged to him for so long, I scarcely emember anothrstate of being and, trutfully, I'm not certainthatI want to. Just, please, kep that in m ind."

But the American seemed unper—per—perturbed by my w arning and bestowd upo n me a most wins ome smile. "I'mot worried, Doctor, not ata ll."

If ever I were to co co compose this case fo r t publick and thought has oc curred, I wou ld have to conceal----conceal one ve e eery imporant detail: Sir Henry's cortship offff me. It would be safe----------------

_To the reader, I must apologize. In my transcribing, I have attempted to be wholly faithful to this account as befitting these two men. What you see above is as near as I can achieve from reading the doctor's journal. I would explain, but he shall do it for me._

End Ch.8

A/N: All that spacing and misspelling is DELIBERATE! It is not an accident it is part of the story! Oh dear, what did I do to Watson now? *cackles* And so sudden too…Guess you'll find out next time he's up! Hopefully I didn't overdo it. I wanted free spaces but wouldn't let me. *sad face*

WARNING: Be aware that this chapter looks back to two different times. The first flashback is to his escape to Baskerville Hall and the second occurs during the actual case which I have placed in 1887.

Reviews are always appreciated! And loved, definitely loved! The more the merrier. I feel all warm and fuzzy, even if you tell me what an evil witch I am.


	9. The Ending of a Life

A/N: At last, the confrontation—and the reasoning behind it—from Holmes's point of view. Warning, it's not a good reason, but I only cite madness as the cause. Just remember how he'd worked himself into a stew in the last chapter. :D

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Chapter 9-The Ending of a Life

At the present rate of interruptions I shall never finish this confession. First it was that buffoon Gregson and now brother Mycroft! Mrs. Hudson interrupted my last entry with a telegram from him demanding dinner with me at Baker Street this evening. I can practically hear him commanding me to be present. As this will be the final time that I shall see him alive, I find that I can humor him even if my first response was to pull a vanishing act just for his benefit.

I have decided as judge, jury, executioner and guilty party in my case, that I shall hang myself. I have already located an appropriate rope and chosen a sturdy beam from which to hang it. I shall make certain that Mrs. Hudson is not present in the house, for I would not have the woman who has endured so much because of me to find my body. I will dispatch a telegram to Lestrade, detailing a time in which I would like a meeting. He will arrive to find me quite dead. No note, no explanation. It will be the baffling and inglorious end to one Mr. Sherlock Holmes. As for this journal, I will deliver it into the hands of my brother this evening and secure a promise that he will not read it till the day after tomorrow. By a glance at the clock, I will have just enough time to bring this to a satisfying conclusion without disregarding any details before my brother descends from his orbit.

There is no adequate way in which to describe my reaction to the scene before me except that I became engulfed in madness—sheer, utter, damning madness. My blood rushed throughout me, my heart too loud within my own ears, and a wave of dizziness crashed over me, leaving me to clutch the doorframe for balance. It was as though someone had outlined my vision in black and it was all I could do not to drop to floor.

As I look back now with a wiser eye, I am aware that I overreacted. There was absolutely nothing unseemly about their behavior, but to my feverish eyes I might as well have caught them in flagrante delicto. My client, a young blonde woman who worked as a governess to three children (ages six, eight and ten) in a large household, liked to play the piano and was an avid horsewoman, was seated upon the settee which had been drawn closer to the fire. Watson had moved his own armchair close enough so that he might hold her hand as she tearfully related her tale to him. None of this sparked my descent into madness, no.

It was Watson's expression.

That earnest look of true concern that he was bestowing upon this strange _woman_ made me want to scream at the top of my lungs before I seized her and bodily ejected her from my domain. What right did she have to be looked upon in such a fashion when all I had earned were those horrid blank stares and stifling silences? Who was she? What was she to you? Why? Why, Watson?! Why now when I had finally gathered enough courage to present my case to you and hope for amnesty? Why should you be concerned with _her_ but not _me_?

All of this inner turmoil I kept from my face as the two turned in my direction.

"I do hope that I am not interrupting anything." Calm, even, cold. No indication of how I wished to drag my doctor from the woman, whom I could now see bore a passing resemblance to Miss Mary, snarling and hissing and generally confirming the fact that he was _mine_!

Both rose at my entrance but I waved them back to their previous seats. As I packed my pipe, Watson explained that Miss Violet (why do so many of my female clients possess that name?) Greenway's sister was missing but the police as of yet did not consider it a case. During this bit of introduction, I was gratified briefly to see him return his chair to its previous position but the urge to scream rose once more when he seated himself beside the woman and grasped her hand again as she quite tearfully continued her account.

Her case was a simple one and hardly worth noting except for the distress it caused my client and my reaction to Watson offering her comfort. Even while I listened as she laid her problem before me, my mind raced to devise ways in which to keep her from Watson. At the end of her tale, I promised I would join her on the train. Watson rose to join us.

"I should like to come along, Holmes."

My hat was already atop my head and I retrieved my walking stick before turning my cool gaze upon him.

"I do not need you, my dear fellow." Seeing his face fall, I continued on. "Enjoy Mrs. Hudson's no doubt excellent dinner without me, Watson. I will be back early tomorrow."

The train ride, thankfully, passed in silence, leaving me to contemplate what my next move would be. In truth there had never been any need for me to travel to Norbury, but neither could I remain trapped within my own home. Logic raged war with emotions, but the emotions were fast taking over until I had to excuse myself from our compartment and scramble to another. I fell to my knees, clutching my stomach even as I bent so far my forehead touched the floor. I swallowed convulsively to keep all that I had eaten that day in its proper place even as my stomach bucked and rolled. For a time, all that could be heard was the sound of gagging and of the few shallow breathes I managed to take. Once my stomach was under control, I managed to drag myself up onto the seat, only to have my eyes rebel next. I sucked in a deep breath and held it, jamming my fists into my eyes to stem the flow. No, no more tears. No true man shed tears, it was a useless and weak display of emotion befitting only a _woman_, had I not had that beat into me enough as a child? If there is ever a lesson from my father that I took to heart, it is that emotions are unnecessary and should be considered a weakness.

It was my error of allowing Watson closer than even my brother Mycroft that has led to this moment. My downfall. My hands left my eyes and pressed to my chest as though they might contain the remains of my broken heart. I was a fool. I had had Watson's answer all along, but I was too blind to see it. My emotions had veiled my deductive powers and obscured the lines of logic that I should have followed, so all that remained was that ridiculous notion of hope.

Now that had been shattered.

Watson had not forgiven me as he had said for leaving him in the dark about my continued existence during the last three years. The truth lay in his blank eyes, silent stare and cautious manner the likes of which I had not seen even at the beginning of our acquaintance. The astonishment of my rising from the dead was a false reaction. Oh, I am sure the astonishment was real enough, but the joy that followed was a mask. Has he been tormenting me this entire time? Toying with my emotions, leading me on in my hope that we could return to what we once were, or even to rise above it? To find completion within the other?

Now I knew the truth. Watson had demonstrated more concern and care toward a strange _woman_ than I had received since my return. A _woman_! A woman who resembled _Mary_! Had he discovered my most closely guarded secret? Had I inadvertently revealed my true regard for him? Was this how he chose to tell me that he would never be mine, nor I his? The traitorous tears once more rose but I beat them back, drawing in deep gulps of air to once more contain my rampaging emotions. Despite the war within me (fear, _hurt_, anger jealousy, despair), I felt a cool veil descending down over my senses, locking the rampant beasts within their cages and allowing logic to once more take control. (Though I now know it to be madness in disguise.) Since Watson was tormenting me with his presence, I would gain peace by removing him. It would not be a simple task, but require all of my wits and cleverness to accomplish.

I returned to my client who was completely unaware of any life altering decisions on my part.

Upon my return to Baker Street, I continued to observe Watson. Although he visited often and was as always his congenial self, there was a marked distance between us that I had noted before, but not understood. From the other side of that stone wall he continued to watch. I felt those blank eyes dog my every step and it was all I could do not to explode and ruin my plan. I spent the days that followed my decision with my attention divided between constructing my plan and continuing my observation of Watson. Oh how quickly those thoughts of love can turn to hate! With his very presence he mocked me, with his feigned ignorance he laughed at me! Despite my growing disdain for the man I nearly faltered, I nearly forgave him three days in before I was forced to see him laughing with Lestrade. Lestrade! Why should he share his laughter with that _man_ and not me? That blow was nearly as cruel as allowing me to see his concern over Miss Greenway. I hardened my heart against him; I was determined that he would not win. He would not! I would not be treated in such a fashion! He had no right—no right!—to break my heart in such a manner! All that he need have done was to refuse me openly like a gentleman should, like a _friend_ should! No, instead he has chosen to seek revenge! He discovered my true feelings for him and mocked me for them—mocked me with that woman and Lestrade. No! I would not allow it to continue.

My black mood only deepened further as my brain, upon which I had relied so much in the past, examined each encounter with Watson (before and after Reichenbach) and showed his betrayal, his deceit, his vileness of character. For six days I plotted, wanting to be absolutely certain that my strike against him would not only drive him away but utterly destroy him. By then he had joined the ranks of Roylott, Smith and Moriarty in my mind and nothing, absolutely nothing could have persuaded me otherwise.

Then came the day.

It was a particularly awful Saturday. I engaged a set of ruffian with a specific set of instructions on how I wished to appear. No doubt they found it strange that someone should wish to _pay_ to be roughed up, but this was a crucial part of my plan. It was imperative so that I might lure Watson close. They performed their role admirably and I returned to Baker Street with an impressive black eye forming and an equally impressive bruise along my cheek. What was the piece de resistance was the cut along my throat (placed so that it would appear that I had been nearly garroted). I waved away Mrs. Hudson's concern and ascended to the sitting room to await my prey though I had not long, for I had timed this confrontation down to the very second. His warm greeting only further incensed me and I pressed my lips together to contain my response. Just a bit longer…

"Good heavens, Holmes, what the devil happened to you?" Yes! My prey was hooked! Now he need only draw closer so that I might have him! I sensed, rather than saw, him kneel at my feet, at first making no other move as he visually inspected the damage, but it was the rattling of the medical bag that told me the time had come. As he raised his hand to my face, I knocked it aside, sending him to the floor as I scrambled away. He would not touch me! He would not!

"Cease your molly coddling, Doctor, for I will have none of it!" The look of abject astonishment that crossed his face only fueled my rage. Did he not believe that I would not discover his plan? Did he believe that I should take such treatment from him?  
"Holmes?" It was such a tentative question, one that I should have listened to, but I was beyond all reason.

"How anyone with such a cold, unfeeling, and clumsy touch ever found success as a doctor is beyond even my power to deduce. You are better suited as a butcher than a surgeon." You have made a mockery of me, Watson, and now I of you! Never again will you laugh at the emotional invalid who is too afraid to admit his own feelings.

"God as my witness, if you should ever attempt to lay a hand on even my shirt cuff ever again, I shall knock you flat, of that you can be certain, _Doctor_." You will not touch me, you will not hurt me! I have suffered enough because of your insensitive nature and now so shall you. Blood was singing through my veins as I closed in upon him for the kill, the final strike that would forever remove this blot from my existence. But first, another wound to add to those I had already lain upon him.

"And do not think for one instant that it has escaped me as to what you are doing." I began to stalk towards him, a predator to his prey.

"You are farming out your patients to others in the hopes of closing your practice and moving back in with me." Pure fiction of course for he had not asked if I would allow it and I would not, not now! My rage had reached its peak and my foot rose of its own accord and knocked the doctor completely to the floor. Power flowed through me and I dug my heel into his wounded shoulder, laughing in triumph at his gasp of pain. Yes, feel it! This is what you have done to me! You have brought this upon yourself!

I ended my laughter abruptly and leaned over so that my final message would be quite clear. "I say again, _Doctor_, I will have none of it! Three years I have managed to escape the oppressiveness of your nature and yet it has returned ten-fold! So you may do with your practice and your lodgings as you wish but do not think you will find a place here with me! I can take it no more!" My breast heaved with spent emotion, adrenaline and triumph coursing in concert through me as I gazed down upon my victim. At first I was uncertain if Watson would be able to move or if I would be forced to remove him myself. Just as I was coiling my muscles for another strike, the doctor flinched and then shuddered. He rolled to his knees and crawled to the door, using it to climb to his feet. I watched his departure with demented glee, hearing Mrs. Hudson's worried exclamation upon seeing him and Watson's mumbled reply.

It was not until my gaze fell upon his medical bag that reality returned with a thundering crash. My knees gave way and I found myself kneeling beside it. My fingers shook as they swept over the Latin inscription sewn into the leather: "For a friend I never had reason to doubt. May your unquestionable heart always guide you. SH" It was the bag I had gifted him with the Christmas before Reichenbach. It was the closest I had ever come to a declaration of my feelings. He had kept it? All this time, he had used it? He had wanted it? The leather was worn, but well cared for and I, trapped in a fog, caressed it, the madness of the past week slowly seeping from my mind.

What had I done? Oh God! What had I done?! I had heard the door slam closed some time ago, yet I scrambled across the floor towards the window, my heart once more beating wildly. But as I searched the street below there was no sign of Watson. No. Now my mind deciphered the words mumbled to Mrs. Hudson—good-bye. Watson had once promised our dear landlady that he would not utter those words unless he never meant to return. Never…return…the final veil lifted and I could see now in my mind the tears that shone in Watson's eyes. Tears. I had done that. I…I had destroyed him. It was what I had wanted. What I believed was right. My deductions, my brain, my memories, all had failed me—betrayed me! Not Watson, never Watson. My heart, which I had thought broken before, now shattered, for it was the organ I had failed to listen to during this catastrophe. I had…what had I said? What had I done?

I would have risen to follow, to apologize, to throw myself at his mercy, but I could not. My body was utterly spent at the horror of the thing and slowly wilted until I lay in an insensible heap under the window with his medical bag clutched to my chest. It was there that my landlady found me; I flinched away as she laid a hand upon my cheek, thumb gently wiping away the tears that wetted it. No, not more tears, I had promised myself no more. But the more I tried to suppress them, the more they overwhelmed me. Even though the watery filter, I could see Mrs. Hudson's face marred with worry and something inside me snapped.

"Leave me."

Her mouth thinned to a grim line. "I will do no such thing! You need…"

Even in my less than stellar state I had the strength to shove her away. "Leave me! I don't want or need your help, woman! Go!" I immediately curled against the wall, away from my well-meaning landlady. It was several moments before I heard her rise from the floor and several more before the door closed behind her.

And so I have reached the end of my confession. Had I been in cold blood I would never have touched or spoken to Mrs. Hudson in such a fashion. She did not deserve it, any more than my beloved Watson. I charge you, Mycroft, with two tasks. Please give my sincerest apologies to Mrs. Hudson. I am too much of a coward to do so myself. Yes, a coward. And a fool. No greater fool than I has ever walked this Earth before and none shall ever again. The second task, brother mine, is Watson. Please find him, please explain. Do not tell him the truth and never allow him to see this journal. Instead, tell him that it was a mental sickness. It is close enough to the truth. Is that not what love is? It has been so for me for more than a decade. Tell him that I cared for him more than I can ever express and that if I could take back every harsh word that passed my lips and painful touch directed toward him, I would. Help him find peace, for I shall have none. Good-bye, Mycroft. I have an appointment in Hell that must be kept.

End Ch. 9

A/N: Ooookay…yeah…madness. I did try to tell you he did not have a very good reason, but then, as I also said, does anyone?

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	10. The Happenings in Baskerville Hall

A/N: I have been leaving these two in rather precarious places, haven't I? Hmmm…I didn't plan it that way, just happened. I only listen to what the voices in my head tell me to write.

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Ch. 10-The Happenings in Baskerville Hall

5 August, 1894

When I first woke to find myself in a hospital, I was less than pleased. I remember little of the last few days, which is unsurprising considering my fever. Once it was determined that I was truly awake, the doctor came to examine me. From him, I learned that I had contracted malaria; if one takes into account that my duties both as a physician and police surgeon have led me into rather unsavory portions of London, it is not hard to comprehend; as I have made no trips to India recently, I can only account for it so. If one also considers the state of my health and how I have allowed it to decline, I am not much surprised. I had diagnosed its onset when I had arrived in Paris. Apparently I collapsed in my hotel room and was found by a maid whom I had summoned moments before. I do not remember; it is not overly important I suppose. I was already entirely insensible when I reached the hospital. I have spoken with the nurse who has been my primary caregiver since I was admitted and was told that the doctor feared I would not be whole, mentally, should I live through the fever. Is it such a horrible thing that I almost wish it were true? My faculties, unfortunately, are as sound as they were before my collapse. I remember all too well. It was the nurse who asked if there was anyone that I wished to contact.

"No," I replied, but grabbed her wrist as she went to move away. "Did I…that is…did I say…?" How does one ask if they have comprised themselves?

She seemed to understand and patted my wrist. "You spoke of hounds and falls, but mostly you apologized to your beloved." She smiled. "I will find her for you, if you like."

I nearly choked on my relief. I had not spoken his name! Even in my weakest of states I kept him a secret in my heart! "Thank you, my dear, but my beloved is quite beyond my reach."

The sadness that permeated my tone clearly led her thinking astray for now her hand moved to my shoulder in sympathy. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

Nurse Blain is a credit to her profession and has made it her personal mission to see that I make a full recovery. Today she has ordered a visit to the sun room. Since I was heartily tired of lying in bed, I was in full agreement of this plan; I do not, however, believe she was overly pleased by my choosing a rather solitary location in which to relax, but seemed to understand when I asked for this journal and a pen. I am eternally grateful that this journal went unmolested. It contains entirely too much for me to take back. After reviewing my last entry, I can see how quickly my faculties were slipping away. I shall endeavor to continue the account with a much clearer head.

When last I left off, I was recounting a moment during my first visit to Baskerville Hall when Sir Henry, after listening to my troubles, asked for permission to court me.

"Allow me some time to think? This is rather sudden and I do not wish to be too hasty in my decision," was my reply. The baronet nodded and rose from his kneeling position at my feet. As he went to release my hand, I suddenly clasped it tight in my own. "I cannot promise, Sir Henry, that should I say yes to your proposed courtship, that you will succeed. My heart has belonged to him for so long, I scarcely remember another state of being and truthfully I'm not certain that I want to. Just, please, keep that in mind."

But the American seemed unperturbed by my warning and bestowed upon me a most winsome smile. "I'm not worried, Doctor, not at all."

If ever I were to compose the Baskerville case for the public, and the thought has occurred to me more than once, I would have to conceal one very important detail: Sir Henry's courtship of me. The public is not yet ready for such matters even if I harbored any notion in sharing them. It would be safer to let them believe that he had turned his attentions to the lovely Miss Beryl Stapleton. It was his friendly attitude toward her that eventually led Stapleton to his display of suspicious temper and allowed me to see that all was not as it should be.

The halting of the trap outside of Baskerville Hall brought me from my ruminations of the past. Mortimer led me inside, straight to the study. Upon our entrance, Sir Henry quit his paperwork to greet us. His eyes were entirely on Mortimer at first as I was stooped behind him.

"And this is a surprise for you, Sir Henry," Mortimer declared once they had concluded their reunion. "We met at the train station." With that he stepped aside and I was in full view for the first time. The American looked momentarily confused until I tilted my head just enough to allow a peek of my green eyes.

"It has been some seven years, sir, since I saw you last and you have not changed at all!" I exclaimed.

His blue eyes were as round as an owl's, but I did not release a sigh of silent relief until he squeaked "_Godric!_" And it was a squeak. I would have to tease him mercilessly about that later. My grin was certainly as much gratitude as it was happiness, for, despite the circumstances, I _was_ happy to see him.

"Aye, young one, now you tell me what is this business about a cursed hound? I thought you'd never meet a dog you didn't like!"

"How on earth did you hear about that, sir?" Mortimer asked as we sat down for tea.

I flapped my hand in the air. "I mentioned to some silly lad where I was going and he proceeded to tell me some blasted tale about hell hounds and family curses. Bunch of hogwash! Hell hounds…I wish I'd had one to get rid of him!" My blustering finished, I downed the rest of my tea and slowly rose to my feet. "I'll just let you two young sirs catch up. I see a chair near that fire with my name on it. I'll just catch a few winks and be all the better for it!"

Sir Henry began to rise. "Let me show you to a guest room. You'll be much more comfortable there."

I waved him back and made a show of settling myself in the aforementioned chair. "Nonsense, my dear boy, this will do nicely. It will be nice to try and sleep on something that is not moving for once." I perceived, by his troubled expression, that he did not believe me, but I was entirely truthful. It was the second day since my departure from London and I had indulged in little if any sleep. My mind was much like a darkened alley, ready and willing to spring horrors upon me when I least expected it. In such an unguarded realm as dreams, I was a helpless victim. So I had imbibed in rather more coffee than was likely healthy in an attempt to keep those monsters at bay and so suffered the ones my mind conjured when awake.

I was therefore surprised when I fell into a deep, thankfully dreamless, sleep almost as soon as my head touched the padding on the back of the chair. I was, blessedly, completely unaware of the world around me and when I think upon that moment now, I can nearly appreciate Holmes's cocaine use. He tells me it is for the mental stimulus that it provides, but I am rather more inclined to believe that it shuts away the world so he need not deal with it. As a man who has endured the travesties of war and the devastation and bitterness of heartbreak, I can certainly understand why he would wish to escape, even if I have not reached that level of desperation.

Yet.

It was evident by the deep orange rays filtering through the half-drawn drapes that I had been asleep for some time. No sound save the merrily burning fire reached my ears. Mortimer was gone then and someone had been kind enough to tuck a rug around me. The same person, I believed, who was even now indulging in a cigarette just across from me.

"No use, old man, I know you are awake." Sir Henry's amusement overlaid his worry but not enough that I could not detect it.

As playing opossum was entirely useless, I opened my eyes and stretched, unsurprised that, despite my nap, I was still very tired. "It's rather later than I expected," I commented.

The other nodded, glancing at the clock. "Well past dinner, but it looked as though you needed the sleep. They have it waiting for us. Shall I have them bring it up?"

"Thank you, and just for yourself. I've no appetite I'm afraid."

"By looking at you that's not a recent occurrence." The grimness of his tone surprised me and it was only now that I saw the frown etched over those youthful features.

"It is not as bad as it seems."

"Not as bad!" The bouncing of his leg told me he was restraining the urge to pace. "Watson, you are practically a ghost! _And_ you're here as Godric, which I know means trouble with Mr. Holmes. The question is, then, just what sort of trouble is it?"

I heaved a rather heavy sigh. "It is a long tale, Henry."

Those blue eyes were relentless as they bore into me. "John, you may have picked Mr. Holmes over me all those years ago, but that did not negate you as a friend. As a friend, I am asking you to unburden yourself. What's happened?"

For a time we sat in silence as I contemplated his request, unsure that I would be able to fill it. The memory of that afternoon was like an arrow to my heart. The wound had been too fresh when I was rescued by Lestrade and in the last few days I had done my very best not to dwell upon it. But somehow I could not refuse this man who had been so kind to me in the past and perhaps, in the telling, the wound might begin to heal.

At least, that is how I deceived myself.

I am a soldier, but even I could not bear to look upon the pity I would surely find in his expression. Therefore I kept my eyes locked upon the fire and in a slow, flat voice even I should have worried over, I relayed all that had happened. Every vile phrase, every hurtful slur. I had just come to how I had been injured when the American let out a cry and leapt to his feet, rushing to my side.

"Does it still hurt? Are you in need of a doctor? Should I send for Mortimer? What can I do?" His laid his hands upon my elbow as though he might ascertain the damage by touch alone.

In truth, the bruising and inflammation was extensive and quite painful and while I had reluctantly shared my tale, I was not ready to share this. As gently, but firmly, as I could, I removed his questing fingers and pushed him away. "There is nothing else that can be done, it will need to heal on its own."

By the set of his jaw, I knew that he wished to pursue the issue and was debating on whether or not he would win. He decided against it and retreated to pace in a circle around his chair.

"How," he finally asked, "how could he do such a monstrous thing? You are his best friend, his Boswell! You have followed him into situations that I can only imagine would have caused lesser men to flee. And no one could ask for a more loyal companion!" He halted abruptly in his pacing and scowled into the fire. "Any other man would have abandoned him long before now, but not you." He looked me square in the eye. "And he has thrown all that away because of your 'unnatural' desires for him?"

"I can only account for it so."

"Then he is a thrice-damned fool! I know that I have said so before but this goes far beyond my worst fears." Those dark blue eyes continued to examine me. "You will stay here of course?"

"If I am not imposing."

"Nonsense! I insist. In fact, I intend to do my best to persuade you to stay here permanently." He held up a hand to forestall my arguments. "Please, allow me the chance to help you on the road to recovery, old man."

As much as I wished to protest his placing himself in control of the situation, I just did not have the energy to do so. "Very well."

End Ch. 10

A/N: Considering he ended up in Paris, we know that Sir Henry failed in that respect. Oh, and I figured he contracted malaria while down in Rotherhithe. If only Victor Savage had been so lucky!

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	11. The Revelation

A/N: Greetings! Now we come back to Holmes for a rather dynamic chapter. It sort makes up for Watson's malaria driven ramblings. They are rather strange.

No disclaimer: Public Domian!

Ch. 11- The Revelation

27 July, 1894

The most extraordinary event has occurred. It rivals any revelation or solution of my past cases and shall eclipse all those that follow. Even now I have not fully digested all that has transpired, but since I am currently without means to continue my search, and, being unable to sleep, removed this journal from my desk and shall transcribe exactly what fortunate event inspired this change of my outlook and infused life once more into this wretched soul.

Previously, I have written that Mycroft had invited himself to dinner and as my last act of good will before I ended my undeserving existence that I would humor him and in doing so would also deliver this journal into his hands. Since childhood, Mycroft has had the rather unnerving talent for upsetting any plans that I may have formed. He may wish to complain that having me as a younger sibling made his youth a most troublesome one. I counter this with the absolute certainty my role as the younger sibling to his elder was made infinitely more difficult by _him_. More times than I wish to contemplate, he has taken it upon himself to "return me to Earth" as he termed it. This usually entailed his fouling up my plans, knocking the figurative wind from my sails, or just generally making an annoyance of himself. It is why, as an adult, I have done my best to limit Mycroft's knowledge and interaction with my affairs so that I might save myself a headache.

Though on Mycroft's interception into this affair I cannot find cause to complain.

After the conclusion of my previous entry, I found that I could not be roused enough to make myself presentable. I will admit that I must have been a frightful sight to my sibling who has not had the misfortune of seeing me in such a poor state before and a veritable wealth of clues for his deductive skills which, Watson was correct in reporting, are superior to my own. I had already begun to lose weight even before Watson's departure, but afterwards it rose to an alarming amount. Though I do enjoy an excellent meal as much as the next gentleman, its consumption is entirely secondary to my work. It was a necessary detachment that began with punishments in childhood and was compounded by my time in Montague Street when my career was yet in its infancy and I barely could afford my rent, let alone have enough left to feed myself. Those two factors helped to shape my habits that have survived despite the best efforts of a landlady who possesses no greater wish than to fatten me like a Christmas goose and a doctor who would gladly aid in the endeavor.

Perhaps, should events unfold as I hope, I shall allow them to do so since I am unlikely to ever achieve my brother's prodigious size.

Aside from my weight loss I had not shaved in several days, nor even attempted to comb my hair. The only reason my clothes were different was because Mrs. Hudson thought to steal them and replace them with fresh when I finally succumbed to her bullying and bathed. Still, I was in no way inclined to address these issues, nor was I tempted to move when I heard the bell. Voices were soon upon the stair and I heard Mrs. Hudson promise a fresh pot of tea followed swiftly by dinner.

"Thank you, my dear lady, that will be most excellent." By the gruffness of his voice, Mycroft had already visited the Diogenes Club and inhaled the smoke there in. I heard the door open and close, but I did not rise from my prostrate state upon the settee, nor did I offer any greetings.

"Shall I strip you, Sherlock, and check for bed sores?" This unusual question, even from my brother, caught me off guard and I raised myself enough to peer over the back of my chosen furniture piece. Mycroft stood casually by the door, one hand still on the knob, impeccably dressed and face accursedly blank. His grey eyes offered me no mercy as they raked over my no doubt pitiable appearance.

"And why, brother Mycroft, would you wish to do such a thing?" It takes a special combination to be both casual and caustic simultaneously.

"You have not moved from that spot, except for yesterday, for seven days, Sherlock. It would be a miracle if your entire backside were not one giant sore. If that were the case, it's no less than you deserve."

"Tell me why you believe I deserve such an affliction? It is most unlike you to want me to come to harm."

"At the moment I wish I could not claim such an absolute imbecile as flesh and blood kin, let alone my younger brother." I was momentarily saved by Mrs. Hudson who entered with a tray filled to excess. No doubt she was just happy to have someone present who would appreciate her cooking. I dare say that I had failed in that aspect in the past week. Gratitude broke through my brother's blank façade and the smile my landlady bestowed upon him stirred indignation and jealousy in my breast. She left the room without glancing in my direction, abandoning me to my brother's abuse.

"Come here, Sherlock, and sit. I gave you sufficient warning of my arrival. If you chose not to use the time afforded to you to make yourself presentable, that is your problem, but I did not come to lecture the back of your settee, no matter how well made it is."

For a half-second, though a half-second only, I was tempted to remain stubbornly in place, but I have learned to pick and choose my battles with Mycroft. He was not above bodily hauling me to the dinner table and unfortunately for me he would not choose to use my arm, but my ear. Gathering my dressing gown (and my dignity) more closely around me, I rose to join him at the table where he was already indulging in the feast provided by my much suffering landlady. He had commandeered my usual place, forcing me to occupy Watson's and I was dismayed to see a bowl of barley soup had been dipped for me.

Seeing my face twist into a sneer, Mycroft's fork paused half-way to his mouth. "Do not complain, brother, for if you consider your diet of late, which no doubt has consisted of little more than alcohol, tobacco, and cocaine, it will be a small miracle if your body will tolerate even that. I was for giving you bread and water, but your good landlady insisted that you would need something a bit more sustaining."

"Mycroft, you did not come to inquire after my eating habits or health, a telegram would have sufficed there. If it is a case that brings you, then I might cut this familial congeniality short—I am not taking any cases at present."

Mycroft wiped his mouth. "Indeed it is a case that brings me to your doorstep, though I will wager that it will be enough to rouse even your dampened interests."

"Betting, Mycroft? Most unlike you."

"As to your health," he continued as though I had not even spoken, one of his most irksome habits, "I have already received a most accurate account of that from both Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson."

My eyebrows drew downward. "Lestrade? Impossible! I have not seen him in two weeks."

"But you have seen Inspector Gregson, who relayed his findings to Lestrade and Lestrade to me. After my interview with your esteemed landlady yesterday, I felt that a personal intervention was necessary."

My hands fisted in the fabric of my poor dressing gown as the clearly superior tone of my brother's set my teeth on edge. What did he know? How could he know? What business was this of his? "Clarify for me, exactly, what you deem worthy of your interception? I can think of nothing at the moment that would qualify for such a move."

"Not even the doctor?"

His question rolled over me like a punch to the gut and I shut my eyes against the flood of images that invaded my brain. The fire, the bitter taste of triumph, the tears in my beloved's eyes. I clenched my teeth till they cracked under the strain of my anger and pain. It was some seconds before I could battle this reaction enough to answer though it was in no way possible to construe my tone as anything approaching normal.

"What of Watson? He is no business of yours."

My brother's grey eyes grew flinty in response and he abandoned all pretenses of eating. "He has been since '83, Sherlock, whether you were aware of it or not. Are you losing those deductive faculties you so pride yourself on and which the doctor has made the entire world aware? I am beginning to believe so."

"Do not," I warned, my own eyes hard, "presume too much, brother. Watson is none of your business."

"Do you claim his as yours despite the fact you have driven him away!?"

I rocked back in my chair, only now aware that I had been leaning forward, blinking rapidly in shock. It had been some time since Mycroft had employed that tone with me—since that time in childhood when I nearly broke my neck while testing a theory—but now I was fairly certain that he was angrier than he had been then. Despite the sinking feeling that I would not emerge from this bout between us victorious, I pressed on.

"What would you know of it?" My attempt at angry only emerged as little more than a desperate whisper.

"Considerably more than I'm sure you wish I did."

I could not conjure a reply to that.

"Tell me, Sherlock, how long have you known the doctor?"

"Since '81 as you very well know!" Ah, so I did still possess some reserves of sarcasm.

"Surely you can be more specific! I am certain, if pressed, you could tell me how long down to the very minute."

My body quivered and my knuckles began to turn white in the effort to keep them from wrapping around my brother's neck. Surely I could convince Lestrade, traitor that he is, that fratricide is completely justified—at least in my case. Why I have not committed it before now, I am not entirely certain.

"You spoke of a case, Mycroft," I began in hopes of steering the conversation away from this painful subject, "and Watson can't have anything to do with that. Speak your piece and be gone!"

"That is where you are mistaken, brother mine. Doctor Watson has _everything_ to do with it."

"Explain."

"Would you be prepared to swear that you know the good doctor better than any other man alive?"

My brother, when he so chooses, can be terribly roundabout in his explanations. If he indulges in this method, there is no swaying him from it and one must merely suffer through it. Exactly where this line of questioning was likely to lead, I was uncertain.

"Yes," I swore, grinding out the answer between clenched teeth. "I would swear that I know Watson better than any other, certainly better than _you_."

I just knew by the smile that my larger sibling bestowed upon me at this declaration, he was already assured of his victory. I would not, however, concede the battle just yet.

"You have read the stories of your cases he has presented to the public, then?" At my terse nod he went on. "What can you deduce from them?"

"That the doctor has entirely ruined what should have been a series of lectures on the art of observation and deduction and turned them into romantic tripe!"

I was hardly expecting the laugh I received when I finished. "Do you listen to yourself at all, Sherlock? I now have all the evidence I need to know that you _have_ read them as you nearly quoted yourself from one!"

Blast! I could feel the beginnings of a blush creeping up my cheeks and I turned away with a huff.

Mycroft soon lost any jollity he had acquired at my expense and proceeded with a more serious air than before. "From your readings, then, would you say it is a fair deduction that the good doctor has an excellent imagination?"

This time I did not deign it necessary to respond. Let him suffer through the silent treatment.

"Allow me to offer you my opinion, then. I, too, have followed the doctor's writings with some interest, and while it is true that they are of a romantic bent, I was still intrigued by them." This caught my attention as Mycroft very well knew by the slight inclination of my head. "If the stories were not enough to convince me of his imagination, then listening to him describe his own suicide with the accuracy of which _you_ would investigate it did."

Even now, a full two days later, any words that I possess fail me in my endeavor to give voice to my feelings at that precise moment, but I shall do my best.

My world darkened and all I could focus upon was the world "suicide." I gripped the table as I began to tip forward and with much more speed than I would have believed him capable, Mycroft leapt across the table and lent a hand to keep him upright. His calling of my name was but a distant echo drowned out by the roaring of my ears. If not for the none too gentle slap to my cheek, it is entirely likely I would have passed out in my own sitting room. Where the first slap prevented this, the second brought me back to my senses.

"Sherlock, pull yourself together! This is no time to faint like a blushing virgin!"

I grasped the sleeves of my brother's jacket and gazed at him with half-crazed eyes. "Watson? John…he did not…he isn't…"

Forgoing the slap, though I could see the want still lurking in Mycroft's expression, he settled for delivering a sound shaking. "No, he isn't though it's no thanks to you." Removing himself from my weakened grasp, he thrust a brandy glass into my trembling hands. "Drink that and calm yourself."

Hardly aware that I was obeying, I lifted the glass to my lips and downed it. My brother, whose face I now believed to be set in a permanent frown, snatched the glass from me before it could become a victim of my unsteadiness. I then asked the question that I did not want the answer to but still desperately needed to know.

"What did he say?"

It seemed as though I surprised him if that raised eyebrow was any indicator. "Do you truly wish to know?" I swallowed around the knot in my throat and nodded. "Very well, as you wish. He wondered, at Reichenbach, what it was for you to be a voyeur to his grief. Did you wonder how close he came to allowing himself to plunge into the roaring abyss so that he might join you in death? Did you ever consider, in the years that followed, how many times he had held his revolver to his temple and pulled the trigger, imagining there was a bullet in the chamber so that he might scatter his brains over the walls? His scene of _you_ investigating his suicide, however, was most telling. I found it morbidly accurate. He was certain that you would look upon his corpse and chastise him even in death. 'Passion, Watson. Like grit in a finely-tuned machine. Cause and effect.' He did not believe that you would grieve his passing at all."

"For I am the brain without a heart," I concluded bitterly, surprised that I was able to speak at all given what I had just been told.

"In your dealings of business, especially your business, it is entirely necessary and practical to be so. It is not acceptable, however, to carry that practice into ones home. Not to ones closest friend. So tell me then, Sherlock, why did you do so? Why did you punish the one man who would forgive you of any sin? Why do you give nothing back to the one who has given up nearly all to you?"

"Because he will destroy me!" Anger once more coursed through my veins and I quit my chair, retreating to retrieve my pipe from the mantle.

Mycroft settled back in my chair, I thought it gave a rather ominous squeak, and fixed that unrelenting gaze upon me. "How?"

This was the moment of truth, though I was not entirely certain why it was so difficult to reveal my secret. Perhaps it was because I had kept this hidden for more than a decade. I do not wish to acknowledge that I might be so fanciful as to think that if the words escaped my lips they could instantly be known to Watson and he would be beyond my reach forever. But was he not so now? Had I not sliced that cord of friendship that, while frayed by our separation, had nevertheless started to mend? But could he not see? Had Watson known…

"It was necessary," I heard myself begin even though I had made no conscious decision to speak.

"So you insist."

I whirled around. "It was!" I snarled, vacillating towards anger once more.

"Explain it to me then!" he demanded.

I tossed my pipe aside, stalking toward my brother with every intention of bodily ejecting him from the room, when the sight of the black medical bag sitting so innocently on the settee arrested my attention once more. All thought of retribution drained from me and I quite simply forgot my anger towards my brother. Against my will, my feet guided me to the settee and with the utmost care I lifted it from its resting place and cradled it against my chest as though it were a child and I its parent. Once more I found myself swept away by the emotions that had haunted my every waking and sober moment. That scene, that wretched scene, was enacted by my accursed brain in every detail and I swayed under the echo of my own anger, trembling with each verbal and physical blow that I had bestowed upon my beloved. Watson's name flowed from my lips in a pleading chant, the tears marking a familiar path down my face.

I was completely unaware of how far I had fallen in this state until two arms pulled me against an overly large body and one hand guided my head to an awaiting shoulder.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, you must come back to me." That dulcet bass, which had chased away so many demons in my childhood, weaved a path for me to return to myself, but it was still some minutes before I managed to banish the image of Watson's anguish to the cell I had locked it in.

"What have I done, Mycroft?" I whispered, staring listlessly past his right shoulder.

"You have made mistake," he replied gently before disengaging from the embrace and leading me back to the settee.

"I did not think so at the time." My voice was hollow just as I was. "I thought he knew and was mocking me for it. I thought he was merely dangling his forgiveness of my abandonment so that at the perfect moment he might snatch it away. I…I…thought he was laughing at how pathetic I became in regards to him and was using _her_ to show that he would never love me in such a fashion."

"Love?" At the time I did not mark how incredibly hopeful my brother sounded.

I turned my red-rimmed eyes in his direction. "I love him, Mycroft, I love him with every fiber of my being and I have destroyed him." My eyes fell close and my head dropped to my chest, too heavy for me to hold upright any longer. "Would that I could just take it back, somehow mend the splintered bond between us, I would trade my soul to do so. But it is entirely impossible."

"Perhaps not."

My entire existence came to reside on those two words. My very breath stilled within my breast and I believe my heart skipped a beat or two. That magnificent brain that others have praised so highly, failed utterly in comprehending the implication of them.

"I don't understand."

Mycroft's grey eyes had lost their stony edge and he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, a gesture I had not been privy to since childhood. "I keep his secrets, Sherlock, just as I keep yours." He held up a hand to stall my protests. "This is a puzzle you must solve on your own. You will not, however, be able to separate your emotions from this as you have all your other problems in the past. Now is the time to use them in concert with your powers of deduction."

"But what if I fail?"

Sadness settled heavily upon his brow. "Then two of the greatest men I have ever had the privilege of knowing will perish. Do not fail in this, Sherlock, for it is the most important problem you have ever undertaken."

End Ch. 11

A/N: Happy birthday to me! Today (the 25th of April) I turn 24! And this chapter, a day early…or close to it…is my present to you guys. Please enjoy!

Reviews are like virtual presents and virtual birthday cake, no matter how many you get, you can't get enough!


	12. Something Gained, Something Lost

A/N: I apologize profusely that you have had to wait so long, but life being what it is, does not always cooperate. That, and Watson has been strangely silent.

No disclaimer: Public Domain!

Ch. 12- Something Gained, Something Lost

6 August, 1894

I believe that I overexerted myself with my last entry. As I read back through I note that, while accurate, my penmanship has suffered because of my condition. It is frustrating to no end that I must experience this weakness for I have not felt this wretched both in body and mind since India and that is a time in my life that I have no wish to repeat. My wishes, however, are entirely pointless for I wish that I had never married one time let alone two. I wish Mary was still alive (she would be had she not married me). I wish that I had been granted the chance to hold our child. I wish that Holmes had not died at Reichenbach. I wish his phantom had not returned three years later, for I am now convinced that the man I had kept company with those nine weeks is _not_ Holmes, embracing me eagerly in friendship, before shattering me upon the chopping block.

At times I wish I could claim no knowledge of the name Sherlock Holmes.

All of these wishes leave me wracked with guilt for a man must tackle the burden he is dealt and be thankful for it. I do not think, however, that I can handle the burden of loving Holmes much longer. I am not improving as the doctors here wish and I, as a doctor, cannot fault them for their care is most excellent. I have long believed that part of the recovery is entirely based on the patient's will to get better. I am afraid that I sadly lack that will. I have treated myself most poorly in these last years and it shows; if I survive this ailment I will be much surprised.

Today I was once more granted the right to the sun room, despite a horrible night of fevered dreams. I indicated to Nurse Blain that I wished to adjourn to my previous spot despite another gentleman close by. He appeared to be napping and I did not wish to search for another nook in which to hide. There she left me with the warning that she would return in two hours time. I suppose that will severely curtail my entry, but I shall continue on for as long as my trembling limbs will allow.

It is thanks to my dreams that this memory has resurfaced. I am finding it difficult to access many of my recent memories due to the high fevers I have suffered. This shall pass or it shall not, I cannot summon the energy to care. But I must get this down for I do not wish to allow any more to slip away from me.

Shortly after Sir Henry persuaded me to allow him to aid in my recovery, I was moved into my previous room. Somewhat embarrassed, the baronet admitted that he could not allow any other to occupy the space for it stood as _my_ room in his mind. I am afraid that I was rather embarrassed in turn, but I thanked him. I was grateful to Sir Henry for more than just the room and aid, but his willingness to perpetuate my deception. I was entirely truthful about my panic over the thought of him not recognizing me. When I relayed as much to him he laughed and confessed that he had almost not but for that peek of my eyes.

"You are the only one with such a handsome shade, John."

To my mortification, I felt my cheeks heating and I was certain I was blazing an awful shade of red despite the make-up. Still snickering, the baronet turned to leave, wishing me pleasant dreams.

"Henry," I called and he halted. "Thank you. I didn't know where else I could go."

His smile was gentle though he made no move to return to my side. "Think nothing of it, old man. You will always be welcome here. Perhaps one day I shall convince you of that fact." With that puzzling message dispatched, he departed.

I must confess that despite the nap that I had already indulged in that afternoon, it was still well past noon when I woke once more. I was still tired; it seemed as though lead had been infused into my limbs and I would have done well to heed the warning then, but my health was hardly a priority and I cast the vague worry aside, assigning the blame to the vivid nightmares that had plagued me throughout the night. After reapplying my disguise, I carefully made my way back down to Sir Henry's study, purposely taking a wrong turn or two so it seemed necessary that I should ask directions from one of the maids. She kindly offered to lead me there herself and as I saw no way to politely refuse, I allowed her to do so. She left me with a curtsey right outside.

My entrance prompted the baronet to remove himself from his paperwork and offer me a rather quirky smile. "I was beginning to wonder if I would see you at all today, Godric." He fairly tripped over the name and shook his head. "That's going to be wickedly difficult to remember, old man."

"Perhaps you should practice more," I teased, "Or simply continue with 'old man.' You seem overly fond of applying that appellation to me."

"Which has nothing to do with you being several years my senior," he returned all too innocently.

"Watch it or I might be tempted to deliver a caning to your backside," I drawled in my best Godric impression and was rewarded with a bright peal of laughter.

"I would sincerely like to see you try," he challenged, rising from his desk to ring the bell. "And now you are going to join me in a late lunch with," he pointed a finger at me when I opened my mouth to protest, "no argument from you on your lack of appetite. I have my sincere doubts that you have eaten enough lately to keep a bird alive, let alone a full grown man who is _not_ in the peak of health." The determined glare silenced any protests I might have been willing to put forth and it was with a rather world weary sigh that I joined him at the table.

Half of lunch passed in silence, I fuming over the demand and the baronet focusing a disturbing eagle-like gaze upon the portions that I consumed. Matters likely would have continued in such a fashion had not a curious sensation at my ankles nearly scared me out of my wits. My nerves were well and truly shot, I will admit, and such an unexpected sensation was entirely unwelcome. I startled Sir Henry with my rather undignified yelp and, to my consternation, he began to laugh after he peaked under the table.

"I suppose it would have been wise to warn you," again with the innocent tone as he bent to retrieve _something_ from the floor, "but in truth it completely slipped my mind." He emerged from under the table holding a cat.

A _cat_.

Now, if I ever do pen the events of the Baskerville case, I will need to omit the true extent of Sir Henry's injuries. One such injury is the scar upon his chest. The hound had dug into the man's chest as if it intended to claw his heart from it. The wounds were severe and despite my prompt treatment of them, scarred. The extent of the scarring I am not privy to as the baronet travelled during his recovery. The other injury was not physical in nature, but psychological. The attack had left a deep fear of dogs. In the letters I had received over the years, Sir Henry had confessed his discovery of the phobia as well as his work to overcome it.

Never in any of those letters had he mentioned a cat.

It was a magnificent specimen with sleek black fur and luminous yellow eyes that were slitted in pleasure as the baronet scratched its ears.

"Antoinette," Well that solved the male/female issue, "stowed away with me on my way home after my sabbatical. When I found her she was in a perfectly dreadful condition and I could not turn her out. I nursed her back to health." He laughed as the animal in question stretched and kneaded his lap to her level of acceptable comfort before settling in for a nap. "I'm afraid that she now entirely rules the roost. Everyone adores her and caters to her every whim. She is unbelievably spoiled." He bestowed an affectionate smile on the purring mass of fur. "It was so bad at one point that she was getting very fat so I started taking her on walks with me across the moor. She was much better for it." Pulling his attention away from his pet, the baronet smiled to see I had consumed a good portion of my lunch. "Excellent! How would you like a tour to see the improvements? That way you can get to know the place once again."

I agreed immediately for, despite my continued fatigue, I knew that it was important to exercise and the activity did not sound too strenuous. To echo my agreement, Antoinette leapt to the floor and gracefully sauntered to the door, impatiently twitching her tail at us.

"Seems like you're going to have two guides," Sir Henry remarked as he strode to the door.

"I do believe your right," I agreed as I rose to follow, retrieving my cane in the process.

I could describe all that I was shown during the tour, but it would be both a waste of time and paper as it has no place in this account. Perhaps another time when I am more up to task. Suffice it say that the renovations, while in some areas extensive, did not detract from the haunting, Gothic quality of the Hall. It was equal parts informative and amusing with the addition of the baronet's cat who seemed determined to put on quite a show for us both. It was not until we returned to the hall in which I resided that she became quite agitated, pacing and yowling, dashing down the hall before running back, yowling, then repeating the process once more.

"What the devil is wrong with that beast?" Sir Henry wondered, his tone showing both curiosity and irritation.

"While I'm afraid that my knowledge of felines is somewhat limited, I might venture to guess that she wants us to follow her."

I received an exasperated glance for my troubles before I was tugged along by the elbow. Seeing that she had finally acquired our obedience, she led us on quite a chase till we came to a small nook in a library near the fireplace. It was there that we came across the most extraordinary surprise.

"Kittens?" Again the baronet fairly squeaked as the sleek black feline looked at us proudly from behind her litter.

"Four all told. Small wonder she was fat, she was pregnant!"

"But I haven't seen any other cats around," the other protested as a silver one, obviously old enough to be weaned from its mother, began to wander away from the rest. Heartily grateful for this unplanned distraction, I watched as the little one first sniffed at Henry's boot, wrinkling its delicate nose, before turning its attention to me. Unconsciously, I found myself on the floor and the kitten took this as an invitation to investigate further. With claws, teeth, and a goodly amount of familiar determination, she conquered me as though I were a mountain. All at once I found us nose to nose and I did my best not to become cross-eyed as I was presented with a pair of beautiful green eyes that narrowed in concentration as I was investigated thoroughly. Apparently I was deemed acceptable for she soon scrambled onto my shoulder and burrowed into my scarf, purring in my ear.

"I think you've been claimed, old man." He held out a hand and pulled me easily to my feet.

"So it would seem."

When Sir Henry reached to pet the kitten, it hissed at him, showing both teeth and claws.

"Not very tame," he remarked dryly, retracting his hand.

"I doubt any of them truly will be." Still, the little beast made no fuss as I removed her from her chosen spot and lifted its tail. "It's a girl."

"I insist you keep her as I will have a devil of a time finding homes for the others."

It was not something I had planned, but some part of me settled at the sound of her purring and I could not bring myself to say no. She would be a step towards my recovery in regards to Holmes, of that I had hope.

Seeing my acceptance, Sir Henry went on. "What shall you name her?"

Many names came to mind, but only one stood out as appropriate. "Regina, for she too is a queen."

It may seem strange that a cat should enter my tale, but it comes to me in my clear moments that I have no notion as to what became of her. It was a false statement to claim I only gained two things from my visit to Sir Henry for she can undoubtedly be claimed as a third. She was with me when I collapsed in my hotel room, but when I inquired after her, Nurse Blain could tell me nothing. No cat was found when my luggage was retrieved from the hotel. At my insistence, she had them conduct a search but nothing was found.

It must well be my lot in life to lose those that I love. I lost Mary to childbirth. I lost my brother to the bottle. I lost my fellow soldiers to the Ghazis. And now my little Regina. But even her loss pales in comparison to Him. All pales to Him.

I suppose it is just as well that I never became a father for if I cannot take care of a cat, how could I have ever hoped to take care of a child?

A/N: *peeks out* I know that I have not updated in what seems like forever, but I cite a busy schedule and an out-of-state graduation of a friend as the reason. That, and I'm not entirely sure of this chapter. *sighs* It is what it is. I blame the malaria. Wow is he depressed…

Reviews, as always, are eaten…er…read with great joy!


	13. Obstacles in the Search

A/N: Okay, later than I wanted but here it is! Holmes has so many people to answer too…

Ch. 13- Obstacles in the Search

1 August, 1894

Another say that was a monumental waste! How am I ever to fix my mistake if no one will even offer a scrap of a clue to aid in my search? First it was my brother, who, after drugging me senseless for twenty-four hours and allowing Watson to gain an even more substantial lead than he already possesses, refuses to divulge even the slightest notion of what has become of my Boswell. He _confesses_ that the good doctor did not see fit to divulge such information to him. Hah! While it may be true that Watson did not reveal his destination, my brother has some opinion on the matter but refuses to voice it. If he wishes that I would mend the bond between Watson and me, how shall I do so if I cannot find him? As to that matter, _how_ am I to do so? As Mycroft has already hinted, I am failing to deduce a rather large clue to this entire affair. If I continue to do so it may very well cost both Watson and me our lives.

Blast the man! How the deuce am I to solve this problem when I have no clay in which to constructing my bricks? But it is not merely brother mine who has closed the proverbial door upon me, but the Irregulars as well! When I contacted young Baskins (who has replaced Wiggins) to employ them into keeping an eye out for the doctor at all his favorite haunts, I was informed, in a most scathing tone, that if it were any other matter but the doctor, they would of course be at my disposal. When I asked why, the young pest gave me the darkest, sternest look a thirteen year-old could summon.

"You did the doctor wrong, Mr. Holmes, and ifin he don' wanna be found, we ain't findin' 'im." I'm afraid that attempting to produce a Cockney accent on paper on paper is entirely useless and only increases the pounding of my head, I will refrain from doing so anymore than I already have. I have never been angry with any of my Irregulars before—frustrated yes—but never truly angry. In that moment, however, I feared what I might do in my anger and so dismissed the boy from my presence before I proceeded to destroy the sitting room. It served no purpose but to exhaust me, but I pulled myself back together and took to the streets myself.

Three days of that and I returned to Baker Street frustratingly empty-handed each time. Mrs. Hudson is still not speaking to me and so I was left with nothing but my own thoughts on the matter.

None of them were pleasant.

Where has Watson gone? Is he even still in London? Am I wasting my time searching here? Could he have returned home to Edinburgh? No! This is his home! Here with me! I will make him believe it—he will know it! John Watson belongs no other place than at my side.

So why is he not? It is because I am a fool and a coward of the highest caliber. I will find him. I must. I will beg his forgiveness and do all in my power to achieve it.

Even if I do not deserve it.

Perhaps the most bizarre and irritating obstacle I have encountered at this point comes in the form of that rat-faced Scotland Yarder, Lestrade. It was only after we nearly came to blows that he offered any information and even then it was such a waste. I have only just arrived home from the bout and the anger, adrenaline and frustration that courses through me is enough to make this entry nearly illegible, but as I have no other alternative (I will _not_ destroy the sitting room again), I rooted this out and shall lay down exactly what transpired between Lestrade and myself.

On the fourth morning since I had woken from my drug-induced slumber (I shall not forgive Mycroft for that or his aiding Watson anytime soon), I found myself filling the sitting room with a thick cloud of smoke, for I had been up all night. Another night, another fruitless search. I was rapidly approaching the conclusion that either I had entirely underestimated Watson's skills at deception or he was not in London. Possibly both. As my frustration mounted, I was more inclined to believe the latter conclusion which in no way elevated my mood.

It was as I was once more examining my confrontation with my brother for clues that I was struck with a thought. Mycroft had received a report of my health from Mrs. Hudson (not surprising) and _Lestrade_. Why on Earth would the inspector, upon hearing the news of my deteriorated health from that loose-lipped Gregson, pass it along to my brother? What possible connection could those two have? As far as I was aware they moved in entirely different worlds. So, why? How?

Satisfied that at last I possessed a lead in which to pursue, I took up my hat and stick, pausing only long enough to glance at the clock. Whatever faults I may find in Geoffrey Lestrade, dedication to his work is not one of them. Even at this early hour it was entirely possible to find him at his desk filling out paperwork or speaking with the constables. If I possessed any luck at all (and at this stage it was entirely doubtful) he would be in his office.

I had questions for that little official.

The ride to Scotland Yard seemed to take twice as long as my mind raced ahead of the cab's horse and it was all I could do not to bite my nails. A filthy habit I had thought I had conquered in childhood, but the urge was nearly overwhelming when deprived of any means of releasing the nervous energy raging through me. (I had, unfortunately, forgotten both my pipe and my cigarettes at the flat). My mind, in retaliation, contemplated various scenarios for the upcoming interview. One question kept circulating through each of them: Exactly what was Lestrade's role in this affair?

By the time the cab had halted outside the dark gates I was no closer to a solution than before. Descending from the cab, I paid the driver, pulled my bowler low and tucked my head down, striking out towards Lestrade's office. It would have been easier and faster if I had been inclined to question one of the passing constables so that I might be certain, but I was hesitant to do so as I did not wish to alert the inspector of my impending arrival lest he be inclined to make himself scarce. I was in no mood to go chasing after an errant Yarder who might hold the key to finding my Watson. With every step I took, my agitation grew, for I had long ago spent my patience on this matter. For Lestrade's sake, I hoped he talked and quickly.

With no more than three harsh knocks, I barged into the official's office, relieved to find him, as I predicted, seated at his desk already deep into his paperwork. His eyes momentarily flashed in my direction before returning to the sheet in front of him. "Have a seat, Mr. Holmes. I will attend to you in just a moment."

The nonchalant attitude snapped what little control I had managed to retain and I snatched the paper from his hand, tossing it aside. "I will not be kept waiting! Tell me where he has gone, Lestrade, without delay, for you know that I am not to be trifled with!"

Lestrade's expression was frighteningly blank, but I could see the storm building behind those beady brown eyes.

I would have done well to heed the warning.

"Who are you looking for, Mr. Holmes?" Such a calm, even tone he possessed.

I slammed my fist down upon his desk and just resisted the urge to sweep the remaining paperwork to the floor. "You know…!" I clamped my mouth shut to contain the rest of the shout. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I had to be calm; my emotions would only cloud the matter further. "You know," I tried again, much more calmly, "that it is Watson that I seek. I must find him!"

That storm flashed but the face remained blank. "No, I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that Watson was missing. But, Mr. Holmes, if anyone can find him it would be you." He rose to his feet and pulled his coat and hat from the rack in the corner. "Now, if you will excuse me, calls need to be made, errands need to be run. I am afraid that's all the time I have for you today." He maneuvered around me and held open the door. "Good day, Mr. Holmes."

At first I was entirely shocked. While no one could ever accuse Lestrade of being anything other than professional, I had not witnessed such stiff formality since the beginning of our working relationship. Anger and desperation followed swiftly on the heels of this. No, he could not deny me! He was my only lead. I had nothing else, nothing! With these emotions firmly taking hold, I dashed forward and ripped the door from his grasp, slamming it shut and locking it. Lestrade is an excellent fighter, most would be surprised to know this and many frequently underestimate him, and immediately he fell into a defensive stance. Despite that, my anger and desperation allowed me to overpower him, smashing him against the wall. "You must tell me!" I demanded, shaking the compact frame. "I must know where he is! I must find him! Please," my voice dropped to a whisper, "I beg of you."

Lestrade's face turned red with repressed rage, but strangely he made no move to free himself from my grasp. "You _beg_, Mr. Holmes? Tell me this, _sir_, did the doctor beg you as you smashed him to bits? Because there is no doubt that the man I found wandering the streets was broken. You did that, Mr. Holmes, you! Not even Afghanistan and Maiwand managed that." My fingers lost their grip upon the inspector and I found the tables turned; he was the predator to my prey, backing me against the wall. "Are you proud of what you have done, Mr. Holmes? You turned away the one man in all of existence that actually enjoyed your company just for you, the man who wanted nothing more than to spend time with you. He was the man who brought your _famous_ powers of deduction to the attention of the public—he helped to launch your career! He is the man who stood beside you when all other would have abandoned you to your drugs and black moods. Is _this_ how you repay devotion and loyalty, Mr. Holmes? Is this how you repay _love_?"

My eyes had dropped to the floor midway through his tirade as I was unable to allow him to see my tears over his too true statement. It was true, all true! I had done it all, destroyed the man that I loved as surely as if I had placed the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. The inspector—he was a first-hand witness to the devastation that I had wrought! Why would he help me? Why should he? The _Great_ Detective could not solve the most important case of his life. Was it honestly my destiny not to find my beloved?

"And do you know what I find ironic about this, besides the face that you are undeniably an imbecile? Despite the blow that you dealt him, Watson wished to see no harm come to you. In his eyes, he was not worth the 'trouble'." The little inspector snorted. "I would have considered it a privilege to take a stripe from your hide and I don't care if you fence, can single-stick, or are a light-weight champion boxer, I would have done it! Watson is a good man and a good friend—he was my friend. And you, sir, drove him to the brink with your 'death' then happily pushed him over with this nonsense."

I could not help but raise my head as Lestrade moved away, shaking his head as he did so. "You may be a big man on the outside, Mr. Holmes, but on the inside you are very, very small. Now, I have work to do and I am asking you to leave me in peace before I forget myself and take you to task despite the doctor's wishes." He pointed to the door before dropping into his chair and picking up the next sheet of his paperwork.

Lestrade is a man I would have once claimed to be able to predict his every move. He was a fixed quantity, a known agent in my universe of never-ending chaos. Nothing, I am only now beginning to understand, has quite added up correctly since Watson entered the equation. The universe that I had built was crumbling around me and now one of my only stable points was knocking me askew. I clutched at my hair with my hands, knocking my hat to the floor in the process, trying to stem the urge to cover my ears in a futile attempt to block out the screaming in my head. It was as though a wild beast was trapped within me, clawing in an attempt to voice its frustrations over being separated from its mate. Perhaps, if I had been in my right mind, the next words would not have escaped me.

"Do it."

Lestrade, who had been conducting a valiant effort to ignore how I was disintegrating in the corner of his office, did not, at first, look up, but his whole body seemed rigid. "What did you say?"

"Do it." The laugh that followed caused even the hardened inspector to shiver. "What's to stop you? Watson? He is not here and I shall never find him. The Great Detective?" The laugh grew high and thin as my hysteria increased. "I cannot find him and I shall never be able to tell him. You would be doing me a great service by ending my miserable existence. I could help you make it seem as though it was self-defense so as no harm would come to you. Then you would be able to go to Watson and let him know that he is free of my presence forever and—"

My rather incoherent and self-depreciating rambling was cut off abruptly by a stout punch to my nose. I could not prevent myself from falling back against the wall in surprise. The inspector allowed me no chance to recover, grabbing my jacket and slamming against that unforgiving stone. "Stop being so dramatic! This not about you! This is about Watson! The man who left London, left England to escape you! Everything he has ever done has been for you and still all you can think of is yourself!" With a cry of disgust, he allowed me to crumple to floor.

Blood dripped down my face, no doubt staining my clothes, but I made no move to halt it, instead turning my weary gaze upwards. "He is gone?"

Whether it was my pathetic appearance or the absolute hopelessness in my voice, Lestrade's anger suddenly fled and he deflated. He stared down at me silently for a moment before suddenly shaking his head and retreating to his desk. He dropped wearily into what I had no doubt was the most uncomfortable chair in existence, rubbing a shaking hand over his face. "Yes, he is gone. Saw him off on the train myself that very night." He shook his head. "I've seen a lot of things in this line of business, Mr. Holmes, but I don't think I've ever seen such an empty husk of a man who isn't dead. And all I could do was give him an early Christmas present." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I hope it will help."

"Do you know where he went?"

"I don't. I bought the ticket, but it impossible to say where he went from there or if he didn't just make a giant loop and is wandering somewhere in this great pit. I doubt that, but it can't be discounted. But what is the point, Mr. Holmes? How did it come to this and why? Why did you do this?"

My words were clipped as my despair became once more coupled with a growing anger over the situation. "As you have previously stated, Lestrade, I am an idiot of the first order. But if you cannot help me, then I must continue to blunder through this on my own. Good day to you." I stalked towards the door, having retrieved my hat, but hesitated as my hand touched the knob. I had to know, damn my curiosity. "What did you give him?"

My question seemed to surprise the little official, but he answered promptly. "A journal. Black leather, golden hound head on it. Seemed to like it well enough."

"Hound head?"

"It reminded me of him," the inspector defended. "And as I said, sir, he seemed to like it. Kept running his thumb over that head."

With a sigh, I once more bid Lestrade farewell. With each step I took away from his office, the angrier I became. I cannot begin to wonder what garnered more attention from the lingering constables and inspectors: the nearly dried blood on my face or the growing thunderstorm in my expression.

Nothing, nothing! What had I gained? Only the assurance that I had made an enemy of Lestrade and the man did not know where my Boswell was hiding. Left London—oh I had hoped not, but now I know, like all my other hopes, it was in vain. Part of me wishes to wash my hands of this entire situation, but the thought of never seeming my Watson again cuts deeper than I wish to admit. Even if it was a vain hope—for me—I could not give up—I would not—I…

I am a fool! Of course, it was staring me in the face all along! The hound—Watson reacted to the hound, Lestrade was very certain of that. It was enough to make an impression on the man. It is more than likely true that he did _not_ know his destination until that very moment. But the hound—Baskerville! Watson has maintained a healthy correspondence with the man over the years. It would only be natural that he would invite him back. Any port in the storm—

End Ch.13

A/N: Phew! Lestrade had a lot to get off his chest, there is no doubt about that! And Holmes is still teetering about like a teeter-totter. Can't decide which way to go with his emotions. Guess he's hoping Watson can fix that! Till next time, hopefully not too far in the future!

Reviews are my bread and butter and keep me going!


	14. The Root of Madness

A/N: I am totally losing my schedule with this thing. *Sighs* I am a bad authoress *Hits head* I should provide you with more, so here it is!

NO disclaimer: Public Domain!

Ch. 14-The Root of Madness

7 August, 1894

Why am I here? How am I still alive? I have settled for the inevitable, final conclusion to this moment and while my mind is ready, my body appears to wish to carry on. But why? My physical heart continues to beat a tattoo of betrayal while my inner heart ceased to do so after that day. The only answer that I can divine is that I must write this, I must commit this to paper so as to achieve some inner peace.

I do not hold much hope.

Once more I am in my corner with no other company apart from my sleeping neighbor whom I hope, just as yesterday, will remain in that state. My mind descends into a jumble of unreliable thoughts and emotions as it slowly becomes impossible for me to distinguish what is real and what is not. Reality is like the sand of a broken hourglass—it continues to slip through my fingers. What parts that I do capture are, unfortunately, the ones I most wish to forget.

One such moment occurs during my visit with Sir Henry. I had been there a week and a half and was quickly drawing to the conclusion that this was a wound that would not heal; I would not recover. When I look back at those moments and how Sir Henry treated me, that hollow organ in my chest aches. He was trying so very hard, made certain that I slept all that I wanted, that only my favorite foods were available, and that he was always close at hand to provide a sympathetic ear or distraction. It was simply not enough and he knew it—the anger, pain and sadness was the easiest to spot when he failed to make me smile.

The morning began as damp as any other with the fog from the night still blanketing much of the dips and swells in the land, but the sun was showing strength, burning away the fog steadily. With the promise of such amiable weather, Sir Henry proposed a walk across the moor. As I knew it was yet another attempt to lift my spirits, I agreed, but I must confess that I held no great enthusiasm over the venture. Precognition—a lingering sense of foreboding—some inner instinct warned that I would find no pleasure in this exercise.

Once we had bundled up appropriately (and I had shut up Regina in my room), we set out with no particular destination in mind though I did note that we were wandering in the general direction of the Merrepit House. For a time, the silence stretched comfortably between us and I must say, I was glad of it. It is not that I do not enjoy conversing with the baronet, but I was accustomed to silence and while others who have suffered through heartbreak may wish for chatter to keep their mind occupied, I do not. The silence allows me to keep my mind blank and my body becomes as vacant as a corpse. This was how I hoped our entire walk would progress, but when Sir Henry led me to an outcropping of rocks, I knew that my hope was in vain.

Retrieving the extra blanket from his pack, the baronet spread it out over his chosen seat, a rock shielded from the wind, and beckoned me to join him. Steeling my nerves for whatever talk was about to take place, I obeyed and we found ourselves seated shoulder to shoulder. My trepidation rose as he grabbed my hand in one of his own, clearly tipping the line of friend into something more.

But I was cursed in this as I was in all other things.

"You know what most frightens me about this whole business, John?" he began, choosing to keep his eyes on the distant moor instead of my face. I shook my head and muttered a soft, "No."

"The fact that you're so unreasonably calm!" he exploded before cocking his head in my direction and grimacing when all I offered him was a raised eyebrow in response. Turning away once more, the baronet sucked in a deep breath and held it before letting it out in a small gush.

"Do not think me a cad or crude or cruel for asking you this, but I cannot contain myself any longer. Why do you still love him?"

Feeling as though I had been bludgeoned in the back of the head, I wrenched my hand from his grasp and stumbled away, deaf to the pleadings of the other man. How long I travelled, I am uncertain, but it only came to an end when a hand gripped my collar and yanked with enough violence to send us both tumbling to the ground. The hand at my collar was exchanged for two arms around my waist and despite knowing that I must have knocked the wind from him, I could still hear Sir Henry's frantic mutterings in my ear.

"Not into the Mire, please—I'm sorry! I take it back—I don't need to know! Just not into the _Mire_…"

As I could not break the strong grip upon my waist, I shifted enough so that we lay side-by-side and waited patiently until the baronet's fear had calmed. When the mutterings finally came to an end, I patted one of the arms that still held me prisoner. "Might I get up now?"

Though I could not see it, the heat of the man's blush was unmistakable just before he rolled away and clamored to his feet. I gratefully accepted his offered hand and allowed him to pull me upright once more. He secured an arm around my shoulders, the man is indisputably tactile in nature, but I could not help but wonder if this gesture was for his security and comfort or mine. Soon enough we were ensconced on the rock, but this time the baronet did not venture any inquires.

Such a question he had posed, such a small, yet enormous question! Should I give into the impulse to answer "I just do" or "I don't know"? Both would be true but still lacked any clarification on the subject. And how was he even sure that I still loved Holmes? What proof did he possess? Was it a rival's instinct? I shook my head and cast my eyes downward. That was a disservice to the man who had shown me nothing but kindness in all the time I had known him. By God would my life not be easier if my heart belonged to him! Even now, after all that had happened—between Reichenbach and the Incident—I could not let go. I suffered just as much now as I did all those years ago when I chose Holmes over Sir Henry.

What is truly frightening to me is that, given the choice again, I would still choose Holmes—even now.

Perhaps that is the true reason why I ran. I could not allow myself to become the dog at his heels, grateful for whatever scraps of affection that were thrown my way. That is what I feared. I would cease to be a human being and become just another tool in the great detective's arsenal. I could not face the partnership that I so treasured degenerating into such a state. By running, I was allowed to preserve the memory of our friendship that was, while certainly not perfect, one I could claim to be proud of.

But was it true to say that I still _loved_ Holmes?

God help me—yes!

Digging the heels of my hands into my eyes I drew in a deep breath, held it, and then let it out slowly. "That is not an easy question," I began, keeping my eyes trained on the distant landscape, "but a better one to begin with might be this: How did I come to love him in the first place?" A small chuckle escaped from me. "Did I ever tell you of our first meeting?"

"No, but I did read _A Study in Scarlet_. I've read everything you've written."

"Then you know that we were introduced through a mutual acquaintance, Stamford. I was at a very low point, just returned from the war, barely recovered enough to travel home, a body that was entirely new to me and barely functional. I can honestly say that had fate not brought me to Stamford that day and he in turn to Holmes, we would not be speaking at this very moment. There was a very good chance that I might have killed myself." I twisted the scarf relentlessly between my restless fingers. "But then I met him. Everything is just as I described it in the _Strand_ with the exception of my honest thoughts on the matter. My first true thought of him was 'What a beautiful madman!' For there was little doubt in my mind that others, by this I mean society in general, must feel that he is an escaped Bedlamite. I knew that he simply did not feel the need to constrain himself completely to the rules that governed so many others. He was himself." A smile crept over my face as I savored the memory. "It was extraordinarily refreshing. When he made the simple deduction that I was just back from Afghanistan, but made no fuss over the matter, I knew that he was the roommate for me. No pity, no sympathy. No—he possessed empathy. I soon realised why. He was waging his own private war on the crime of his chosen city." The smile slid to a smirk as I cut my eyes briefly in the others direction. "I knew at the end of that brief interview that, if nothing else, he would provide a continual source of entertainment. He fulfilled my expectations and beyond. He did his very best in those early days to be accommodating to my condition (I am certain he had no wish to find a new roommate) but he made no great issue of it. Others that I had encountered treated me as if I were a delicate figurine that had been broken and then clumsily glued back together. Or they did not know how to treat me at all and were very uncomfortable in my presence. I am not certain, even now, which was worse.

"Holmes committed neither of these cardinal sins. He treated me as a normal human being who was not broken past his usefulness. He helped me back into the medical profession. Simple things at first. Questions over anatomy, what would I do in case of coming into contact with this or that poison, if I knew of any ways this medical instrument might be used to sever a limb, or just the practice of modern medicine in general. Do you know he was my first patient upon my return to England? Damn fool was caught by the very gang he was stalking. I knew nothing was amiss until he was hauled into the sitting room by two police constables nearly out of his mind with fever. He'd had a cold prior to the beginning of the stakeout, but he waved away my warnings on the matter, naturally. When Lestrade and the other Yarders found him he insisted, despite his deplorable state, on coming to me and became quite violent when they attempted the hospital. The inspector later confided in me that the entire cab ride to 221B Holmes was muttering 'Only trust Watson.'"

I shifted about. "Not only did I end up treating him, but two of those police constables and Lestrade as well. That was my first step back into medicine and I have never regretted it. So you see, Henry, Holmes gave me purpose, he gave me confidence. His staunch belief that I was still a human being meant more to me than I can ever express. I owe him more than my life—I owe him everything."

A sad smile creased my face. "I cannot speak for any other but I found it an easy thing to love him. The difficult task was to hide it from a man who has made a career of ferreting the secrets from others."

Silence fell between us as the baronet processed all that I had revealed. It was more than I had spoken in some time and never on such a personal topic. Not even Mycroft had managed to pull such a confession from me, but my defenses were low and I was not inclined to conceal much. At this point I knew that my time at Baskerville Hall was drawing to a close, but I was still at a loss as to what I would do next. I had run to escape Holmes, but did not his shadow loom over every aspect of my life? I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that there was no destination I could choose that would afford me that wish.

"One more question, old man, and I shall never again bring up the subject, of that you have my promise," Sir Henry assured and I nodded my head for him to continue. "Can you ever forgive him for what he has done?"

Ah! Another weighty question! Was he not just brimming with them today? This one, however, I had given much thought to in the previous days and was readily able to provide an answer. "I shall be able to forgive Holmes if-

End Ch. 14

A/N: I am so evil. *GRINS*

Reviews are yummy and go good with milk.


	15. On Being Hounded

A/N: Hello there everyone, I have missed you all! I would love to explain why this took me nearly six months to update, but that's not important, the story is, so on to it!

No disclaimer, Public Domain!

Ch. 15- On Being Hounded

2 August, 1894

Even though every instinct within me screams that I should rush straight to Grimpen, logic and a healthy amount of good sense demands that I check points in-between. It is not inconceivable that my Watson may have begun his journey in the direction of that awful moor, but changed routes several times to confuse the trail or chose an entirely different destination altogether. I am coming to realise that he is a much cleverer creature than I ever gave him credit for. How was he able to perform such a feat, I will never be able to understand and since he was able to do so, what else might he have hidden?

3 August, 1894

I was correct! Watson did change trains—five times as far as I am able to ascertain. Today I had the luck of discovering that he resided in a near-by inn—The Walking Tree—where the innkeeper had a most intriguing tale to impart.

"Aye, sir, I know of the man you speak. Most travelers that come through here, they're tired, but he seemed especially so. Paid for the night, asked not to be disturbed and was gone before even I was awake!"

"Did no one see him leave?" I pressed.

The man shrugged, then slapped the bar. "Ratty, the stable boy! He was up all night nursing one of the mares—she was close to foaling, you see."

"And where is Ratty now?"

"In the stable. We've another mare due."

A quick search produced the boy who was cleaning off a new-born foal with a handful of straw. When I mentioned the night in question, the boy's head bobbed in understanding. "Yessir, I seen 'im come in, sir! But twasn't 'im who left, sir, was another chap."

"Describe him please." Another?

"Tall, but bent over like he's carrin' a heavy sack a feed on his back. Black hair, dark clothes, a cane and a green scarf I wouldna minded havin'," the boy declared with no little envy.

I flipped the boy a sovereign. "Perhaps that will help."

My clever, clever Watson. A disguise? Yet another skill within your mighty repertoire I was unaware of. This discovery was fortuitous for my inquires from this point on would have been fruitless indeed without this little trifle. Now I am moving onto Dartmoor with confidence and hope that my Watson lies at the end of this journey.

5 August, 1894

Blast and damnation! I am cursed, there is clearly no other explanation for it! I have been delayed for two days in this wretched hamlet as the train was in need of repair. No other trains run through this station and even if they did, it would be of no consequence—there is only one track! Why is there only one track? The others are also being repaired!

If I must wait much longer I shall set on foot, I cannot abide by this delay!

3:05 p.m.

We are finally underway, but it will be a full day before we reach Dartmoor. I shall attempt to use the remaining time to prepare for what I wish to say to my beloved, for I have thought of nothing but falling to my knees and begging his forgiveness.

Somehow, I do not believe that will be enough.

7 August 1894

So much—too much—has happened. I am now convinced that all the parties involved in this matter have been far too kind to me in regards to both my intelligence—for which they have given me too much credit—and physically—I should have been whipped within an inch of my life. I know that Lestrade was certainly willing but held back for Watson's sake. One must admire his restraint, for Sir Henry could not emulate it. I had always suspected they baronet possessed a substantial temper constrained underneath a thin veneer of adopted English courtesy.

My arrival at Baskerville Hall proved my theory.

But once more I am jumping to the middle and revealing too much. As I have nothing to occupy my time until the ship docks in France, I shall attempt a cohesive account of the events as possible.

After the delay I encountered with the trains, I was more anxious than ever to arrive at my destination. While I was hopeful that Watson would be at the end of my journey, I retained no small amount of worry that he might have moved on. This concern, I must confess, masked an even greater one that continued to lurk in the back of my tortured psyche.

Would Watson be able to forgive me?

There is no doubt that my Watson is the gentlest, kindest man that I know and would, I can imagine, forgive his own murderer.

But what of the murderer of his soul?

That is what I may be branded as if none of the accounts I have listened to are an exaggeration. I do not deserve such a man as a friend, let alone as a partner and a lover, but I want so very much for all of this and more. Should I, by some divine miracle, win back his affection, I shall spend the rest of my life proving just how much a treasure that he is to me. And, should I have my way, in the afterlife as well.

But first I feel the need to address the events of Baskerville Hall for they provided me with the vital clue that Mycroft—and Lestrade I know realise—had hinted as having escaped my attention. With its discovery, the entire matter was illuminated and only a few points still remain in the dark. Perhaps I can persuade my doctor to clear those matters for me, but first, Baskerville Hall.

I am afraid that when I disembarked from the train, I made haste to find a trap that would take me to Hall only to find that for various reasons, none were available for hire. Undeterred, I set out on foot, my agitation making my steps quick and clipped. I had not gone more than three miles when I heard my name being called.

It was Dr. Mortimer.

I paused long enough for the man and his trap to reach my side before climbing inside, graciously accepting the offered ride once I learned our destinations were the same. The young doctor was just as I remembered him though he had gained a few grey hairs at his temple. By the state of his clothing he had been to his dig site that day though had not tarried there long for there was a minimal amount of mud encrusted on his shoes and pant cuffs. Perhaps he had returned to retrieve his walking stick which I had noted had fresh teeth marks even if that spaniel of his was not present. The man was in good spirits and remarked that he was attending dinner with Sir Henry who was in need of cheering up.

"Why would the man as affable as the baronet need such a service?" I asked by way of making conversation. Doing so served two purposes. I would be allowed to gauge the atmosphere I was about to enter and to pass the seemingly endless interval until our arrival.

"Some weeks back I had the privilege to escort a friend of Sir Henry's—one, I gathered, made during his travels in the wildernesses of the world. He had only just discovered the baronet's location and sought him out. By means of escape, if you want my opinion. Poor chap was in dismal health but refused politely every time I offered to treat him."

My mouth might have contained all the deserts of the world for all the moisture that was present. Still, despite the hindrance, I was able to summon a perfectly curious tone with my inquisitive, "Oh?"

Mortimer continued, astonishingly oblivious to my state. "Yes indeed! I tell you, Mr. Holmes, I would have been most curious to hear your deductions in the matter of his life story!"

"Can you describe him?" I doubt that the good doctor could have mistaken my tone for anything other than what it was: pure, unadulterated eagerness. I suppose that I might be forgiven for that for I had long passed my wit's end. I just wanted _Watson_. Now. Right beside me. In my arms. But he was and is not.

_Yet_.

The other man nodded. "Oh most certainly! Shorter than either you or me, but that was likely due to the curving of his spine. In age I would place him at no more than fifty years though he moved as a man with fifteen more. Black hair, white at the temples. He always wore tinted glasses and I rather suspected he was slightly photophobic—or, more accurately, light sensitive. I suspect as well that he was a good two stone underweight if not more despite the baronet's attempt to fatten him up. I also believe that he had recently been very ill and in my medical opinion should not have been travelling at all. As it stands…what the devil?" The country doctor's morbidly accurate assessment of my Watson's condition—for I have little doubt that it _was_ him—was brought to an abrupt halt when we both heard a distant shout behind us. Halting the trap the doctor turned just in time to see a lone rider skid to a halt beside us.

It was an urgent matter of a child who had fallen into a creek and taken ill after. With profuse apologies, Mortimer pled the need to attend to the matter immediately and having some experience in such instances through tales told by my doctor, I did not begrudge him the need to depart. Soon a compromise was reached as the worried father offered me the use of his horse while they employed the trap. Before long I was on my way once more with plenty of time to contemplate the new information I had been given.

It was a wretched portrait of a broken man Mortimer had painted. The man was correct in the one matter of his assessment; Watson had suffered a sickness, but one that ravaged his mind as well as his body. I had witnessed first-hand how grief had decimated the once hale and hardy man I had known and left a ghost in its wake. I, in all my glorious stupidity, hastened to bring about the final blow. I did not know if my Watson would be able to recover from this but I vow now to make it my mission in life to see that he does.

Thoughts of this nature chased themselves in ever-widening circles within my mind even as I viewed with some relief the gate to the estate grounds. I stable boy rushed to take the reins as I dismounted and I left him with instructions as to who the horse truly belonged to. The butler, not Barrymore as I remember from Watson that they had left the baronet's service, greeted me with a professional air and offered to escort me to the baronet. I waved him aside, believing this would be best without an audience.

Drawing in a fortifying breath, I crossed the threshold into the spacious study. I observed the baronet to be seated at an impressive mahogany desk altogether too massive for my personal tastes but nonetheless, if the amount of paperwork that covered it was any indicator, it was put to good use. The transplanted American also made for an intriguing sight. During his case I noticed a propensity towards tidiness (even though he held no fear of getting dirty), but it seemed his attention to such matters had been lacking of late—note the stubble upon his cheek, loosed cravat, and his hair which seemed inclined to stand on end. What was most alarming about the sight was the darkness that lingered under those rather blue eyes. I had not had cause to notice before, but the lack of sleep evident upon his face made them all the more prominent. His head was supported by his arm and he did not bother to glance in my direction when he heard my entrance.

"I'm sorry, Mortimer, I'll be no longer than ten minutes, I promise." The tone was heavy and low, laced with a lingering defeat that turned my stomach.

"I am afraid that Dr. Mortimer has been called away on an urgent matter," I replied, containing a flinch when the baronet's head snapped up, "but he was kind enough to see to my transportation."

For a moment it seemed that I had shocked the man beyond all conscious thought and just as I was about to begin my interrogation on the whereabouts of my Watson, Sir Henry performed a feat I had not thought possible. He leapt over the monstrous desk, and, before I could begin to react, his fist made a resounding connection with my jaw. I stumbled back into the door and he followed with a left haymaker to my eye.

"You bastard!" He growled. I managed to block the next blow and shove him away, falling into a defensive stance. My astonishment only momentarily slowed my response to the situation, but I will freely admit that the sight of the snarling American was most disturbing. It was as though I had released a ravenous wolf-hound that could only be sated with a pound of my flesh.

"Control yourself, man!" I barked when it seemed as though he was not going to calm down. "I am here in search of Watson!"

My poor choice of words only seemed to enrage the man further judging by the flaming of his cheeks. "Control!" he bellowed, clearly restraining himself from lashing out at me again now that I was prepared. "Who are you to speak of control after what you have done! And as for John, given the choice, I would see you dead before I allow you to harm him again!"

It is a peculiar sensation, feeling the blood drain from your face, but I have suffered it throughout this affair more often than I would ever have cared to. His words shocked and enraged me. Who was he to speak of Watson in such a manner? He had no right! Watson belonged at my side; he was my friend, my companion—mine! And intent on murder or not, I would not allow some overgrown school boy to separate us!

"This business is between Watson and myself—you cannot know the true measure of it and you _certainly_ have no place within it." My anger had firmly taken control and the words spilled from me before I could examine their full impact. It seemed, however, I would be given first-hand experience.

"No place? I am bloody well making one! John made one form me when he chose to run here to escape from you. You, Mr. Holmes, the man of tolerance and understanding. Even if the emotional playground is a place we _lesser_ humans are forced to romp through, you are above it! Do you know what you have done to him—truly? Were you here to force him to eat, to sleep? Did you watch him stare off into space, wondering where his mind had wandered and if he would wander back?

"Tell me how, man, because I do not understand it. How could you do this to the one man who has chosen you above all others, even me, over a mere trifle of how he felt about you?"

Chose me? What was the man blathering on about and where was my Watson? He would not keep me from him, I would not allow it! Despite my desperation over needing to find Watson, I could not keep these words from spilling from my lips.

"Chose me?"

I could clearly hear the man grinding his teeth from half-way across the room. "Are you truly that thick? Has it honestly escaped you? _How_ has it escaped you?" He whirled around and I was gifted with a view of his back. Even through the well-tailored tweed I could discern the tense hunch of the shoulders. "I suppose I shall explain it since he did not deem it necessary to do so but considering your action, I can understand why he would choose to withhold it." Spinning on his heel once more he paced his side of the room, clearly building towards a murderous state once more.

"It began during the case with that accursed hound. As time went on I noticed John tending more and more to melancholy. I knew why of course, it was all obvious to any man with half a brain. He missed you." He paused a moment and sighed, his head dropping to his breast. "I tried to comfort him, but only succeeded in eating my own boot."

He turned a thin, twisted smile in my direction. "I made the near fatal error of assuming that you two were lovers. John set me to rights, though I never met a man who wished his words were untrue more. He believed you to be entirely above the realm of such matters and to allow you to know of his _affliction_ would spell the death for you friendship which he cherished above all else." The baronet straightened his shoulders proudly. "Since he believed you were forever out of his reach, I asked permission to win his heart for myself."

My mind was reeling with every word that left the American's mouth, simply refusing to comprehend the information. Watson—Watson loved me? Watson _loved_ me? But, how? And for God's sake why? After all that I had put him through over the years, how in God's creation could a man such as Watson love me? He could have had so much better—deserved so much better, but so help me I wanted him!

It was this clue that I was missing—this is what Mycroft was hinting at. My God—how could I have been so blind? I did not deserve the love of a man of John Watson's caliber, and I doubt that I ever could-

-Did Baskerville just say he attempted to wind Watson for _himself_?

End Ch. 15

A/N: *peeks out from hiding place and waves* Hi? Er…sorry this took so long? I promise that I am going to finish because the next three chapters are done and I am starting on the last chapter today. I told myself that I can't work on anything else until this is done. All I can say is that real life sucked pretty bad there for a bit and then just kept me plain busy, but now I am back!

Reviews from you guys are the best encouragement I can get!


	16. In the Face of Interruptions

A/N: This chapter popped out of no-where, I swear. It came about because I needed one and apparently Watson had some more thinking to do. And I felt the need to aggravate him some more! And yes, I know it is late, for which I apologize.

NO disclaimer: Public Domain!

WARNING! Please note that if it is in italics then it is being spoken in Latin most likely, unless it's obviously for emphasis. You will understand as you read. Some lines are spoken in English, and deliberately so.

Italics=Latin

Ch. 16-In the Face of Interruptions

August 1894

Several events have occurred that have stirred my thoughts into a riot that will not be controlled no matter what effort I exert. It is quite distressing and in order to fully digest all that was imparted to me, I feel that it is necessary to lay the complete events down within this journal. Doing so, I hope, will allow me to move onwards.

When I last departed from this journal I was in the process of describing what would be necessary in order for me to forgive Holmes of his transgressions. As I was finishing the thought on paper, a new voice broke over my thoughts.

"It's a curious thing to see a man writing in such a dead language, for surely he would not do so unless he had something to hide…?" The faintly amused, but very curious gruff in the others voice brought me instantly back to reality. I am not afraid to admit that I started rather badly, for this entire affair had shattered my nerves far worse that Maiwand ever managed, near sending the journal flying into a nearby potted plant.

The hand that gripped my wrist was surprisingly strong though it shook noticeably when it was removed. "Steady, mon petit. I had no intention of startling you so."

"Intention or not, sir, you have done it!" I shot back somewhat testily, clutching the open journal to my chest.

"My apologies, then, but I am afraid that my curiosity got the better of me."

"Curiosity?" I queried back, running a more thorough eye over my, at the moment, decidedly unwanted companion. He was a man of considerable years, but the high forehead and hawk-like nose showed that he had been, if not classically then uniquely handsome, during his prime. His hair was entirely too long to be acceptable by any standards but Bohemian, but trailed as a dark silver rope-braid over his lap. Surrounded by wrinkles though they were, the ocean blue eyes were no less commanding and fierce.

"But of course, I have found it a way to while away my time at night, reading your journal. The nurses are entirely aware of my nocturnal habit and provide me with a candle. So long as I disguise the cover of what I am reading and return it safely to you before you wake, what harm is done?"

My stomach dropped to the floor, then flew to my throat to constrict what little air I had managed to draw. I must have resembled a ghost for all the color that my face held. As it was, the older man became quite alarmed at my state and grasped my wrist once more.

"Mon cher, what is it? Shall I summon a nurse?"

His ridiculous question, coupled with the sheer incomprehensibility that his actions where in any way related to my reaction, snapped me from my shock.

"How dare you?" It was first uttered as a whisper, but as my anger roiled in a writhing red mass to the surface, I was hard pressed to keep from shouting. "How _dare_ you!"

"Mon cher?" His feigned innocent confusion only served to stoke my anger. Surely he was aware of this gross indecency, this utter disregard for my privacy.

"You had no right!" I hissed, wishing for the strength to either stalk away or strike him. Even Holmes had been respectful of my privacy. To have it so disregarded in my weakest of moments was a terrible blow—and he a complete stranger!

The wretch let out a sad sigh. "Yes, I suppose I was a bit presumptuous, but I could not resist. You have a way with a pen that I could not ever hope to imitate nor would I wish to try. _But, I suppose, I should have introduced myself first_."

The complete insanity of the speech was only aided by the fact that, at the last line, he switched his speech from English to Latin. I had always held a fascination with the language that was considered 'dead' but lived on in so many arenas of our daily lives. Such was my fascination that I learned to speak it fluently and while the other boys as boarding school allowed the knowledge to wither and die, I kept mine alive by taking all of my notes in Latin. I had continued this by keeping all of my patient files in this fashion as well as my more private journals. Holmes had raised his eyebrows over the matter when he had come across one and made no other comment than, "I shall never get your depths, Watson."

In accordance to that philosophy, I had used that precaution with this journal. It was rather a good security measure for no layman who laid his hands upon this would be able to decipher its meaning. To have that overcome so simply dismayed me greatly.

My rather ardent declaration seemed to do nothing to clear up the matter. "Mon cher, _why are you so distressed? You have nothing to fear from me, so you have no need to worry_."

If the words were meant to calm me, they failed in their task as I was desperately trying to slow my rapid breathing. When I found myself unable, I began to panic, afraid that I would pass out. The silver-haired man cursed vividly under his breath and wheeled closer to me, grasping my wrists once he had done so.

"Breathe as I do. Watch me, watch me! Do as I do!" Even as he chanted these commands under his breath, he took slow, steady breaths which I struggled mightily to imitate.

What seemed like an age passed before my heart ceased to race and my breathing was once more under my control. Once I was no longer in immediate danger of passing out, the older man released me and turned his head away to cough into a handkerchief. Despite my preoccupation I could not help but note that it was now spotted with blood.

"Your pardon," he pleaded once the coughing had ceased and he had tucked the evidence away, "I had no idea you would be so effected."

The words, almost a perfect echo of Holmes all those weeks ago, sent another shock to my system, but one that secured me to the present rather than sending me to the past. "_Who_ _are you?_" I eventually asked in Latin once I was certain that my voice would not fail me.

"_Most just call me Jean-Luc and now so shall you, mon petit. It's a pleasure to meet you, Doctor_." He eyed the journal that I still clutched to my chest and I perceived many questions trapped behind those unnaturally blue eyes just waiting to bubble forth. But I had a few questions of my own.

"_I would be ever so grateful to know, _Jean-Luc," my irritation flowed through as I stressed his name, "_if in the gross violation of my privacy, you have learned anything _interesting_._"

The other shrugged carelessly, settling once more into his chair, his eyes roaming restlessly over the room. _"I have learned that you love a man who has badly mistreated you and pushed you past the point of endurance. You were forced to flee from him and your home so that you might find some measure of peace. I know that you sought sanctuary with the man chased by hounds who would win your heart for his own, if it was yours still to give. But it is not; it belongs to the Raven. You have become ill while healing others and now find yourself faced with the decision of to fight for life or allow your body simply to wither away."_ The bright blue eyes flickered in my direction once more and I was quite certain that I detected a smile lurking at the corner of that thin mouth. _"Did I miss anything?"_

If I possessed any doubt over the matter of his reading my journal, it was now utterly banished. _"I would say your grasp of the situation is revoltingly accurate,"_ I replied sourly, which earned me a quiet snicker.

_"Come, come,_ mon petit!_ I_ _bet you have not felt this alive in weeks!"_

I shot him a truly awful glare, which earned me a hearty laugh, before attempting to settle comfortably once more into my chair. I lowered my journal once more into my lap and found it promptly snatched from my grasp.

"Unhand that, sir!" I all but roared, struggling in vain to regain my possession.

_"Do quiet down or you will have the whole of the hospital down on us."_

My weakened constitution could not keep the struggle up for an extended length and I was soon forced to watch as my privacy was violated once more, now while I was able to witness it firsthand.

Eventually he closed the journal, allowing his fingers to drum along the surface in a curiously contemplative fashion.

_"Can you?"_

I once more started rather badly at this question, but found myself unable to escape Jean-Luc's intense gaze. Feeling compelled to answer, but unsure of what was being asked, I returned with, _"Can I what?"_

_"Can you truly forgive him? Think carefully on this, it is a vitally important question."_

He was so earnest in his insistence, but I could not stop myself from growling out an immediate, _"Have you not read that I would?"_

He flapped his hand in the air and scowled in my direction. _"One may write what they like and convince themselves it is the truth, but lie to themselves in the same pen stroke. So, _mon petit_, I ask again. If he were to walk through that door and get down on his knees to beg your forgiveness, would you be able to grant it?"_

Anger, indignation, disbelief, and confusion were vying for domination over me as I was presented with this rather weighted question. Part of me wondered why I was even giving this any contemplation as I had already written that I would and could forgive him.

But…could I?

Holmes had wounded me to the core, far beyond what any other had ever managed. But what if I was wrong in my initial assumption? What if it was not my highly illegal feelings that sparked the incident, but some other infraction I was not aware I had committed, or had I even committed one? What if I was not the cause of his ire, but merely its target? I had borne the brunt of Holmes's frustrations before, but never had his attacks been so personal in nature. His level of agitation had never been so great, yet there was deliberation in his attack—not recklessness.

This realization side-tracked my other thoughts completely. His attack _had_ been deliberate. It had been specifically designed to drive me as far away as possible. Even his injuries…it was entirely within the realm of reason that they were staged in an attempt to draw me close in order to instigate a fight.

But that still left the reason of why.

Why had Holmes done this? What heinous act could I have possibly perpetrated that dictated I should be treated in such a manner? That was the very sore root of this problem, one that I have half-tortured myself over. I _needed_ to know the reason and there was little doubt that one existed for no plan could be carried out with such execution if there was not a reason behind it.

And what should I do if l _were_ to know the reason? I had informed Sir Henry that I would be more than willing to forgive Holmes if only he were to explain to me why he did it. Now I was not so certain. Blast it all! Why did he ask such a question? Why was it so imperative that he have an answer? If Holmes were to walk through that door, I was well within my rights to toss him out upon his ear much as he had done me. The likeliness of him giving me a second thought after The Incident were deucedly low and the notion that he would _track me down_ was downright ludicrous in its very nature that a laugh bubbled up but I fought it down again.

But Jean-Luc…he had tendered the question as though it were a distinct possibility that Holmes _would_ walk through that door and that he _would_ fall to his knees and beg for my forgiveness. Did he possess information that I did not? Why else would he ask such a question?

Suspicions roused, I felt my eyes narrow. _"Will he?"_

_"Eh?"_ was the startled return.

"_Will he walk through that door? I believe that I have a right to know."_

_"And if I were to say yes, what would you do?"_

_"Leaving aside the absolute ridiculousness of the notion that he wishes to have further contact with me, I would be forced to flee at once."_ My statement was high-handed and scathing in the extreme and some small part of me was meanly glad to see the older man's expression fall.

_"Then you cannot forgive him."_ The sadness of his tone only further heightened my already irrational anger.

_"What difference does it make!"_ I demanded. _"He is not coming!"_

The light in those blue eyes sharpened to a razor's edge and sealed my lips, stifling any further outbursts.

_"The difference, Doctor, rests on the matter of you attaining even a modicum of peace over this matter. If you cannot come to a conclusion on this matter, how do you ever hope to tackle any of the other issues surrounding this one?"_ He cocked his head to the side. _"It has always been my philosophy to conquer the most challenging problems first. You, Doctor, do not strike me as one who would back down from a challenge. If you wish to find peace, even in death, then apply yourself to this challenge."_

With that he wheeled himself away from me, not halting till he was across the room. I watched as he drew the blanket up around himself and settled down for an afternoon nap.

"Oh, and, mon cher?" He called, though this time it was in English, "You will let me know when you have an answer?" With that last word, he turned away from me and soon enough I was able to discern his snores even across the room.

Even as I record this account, I cannot say with absolute certainty that I have reached any conclusion on the proposed scenario. The question was one I had never in my darkest or lightest dreams given much thought and to do so now was to invite more heartache than I could hope to bear. But Jean-Luc, despite all that he has done, is correct. I do not back down from a challenge.

So, can I truly forgive Holmes?

End Ch. 16

A/N: I know the holidays can be stressful but jeeze-louise, it was a bit much! This has been most done for a week and a half and I am only now finishing. I am a bad author. *Gibbs-smacks self in the back of the head*

Most of this takes place in Latin versus English, so be aware. I knew that strange little man was there for a reason, I just didn't think it would be this one! He was so quiet and unassuming until now, then BAM!

Status of characters:

Holmes: Presently on board a ship to France. Journal wise he is still in the middle of his confrontation with Sir Henry.

Watson: Presently and Journal wise in a hospital in Paris.

I know it can be confusing for you guys, but if you go back to re-read, just know that the first paragraphs of the journal entries tell you what is happening presently to the characters, versus the journals which tells you what has already happened. Thought that might make it a bit easier.

Anyhoo, love you all and can't wait to see what you think!


	17. The Relative Interventions

A/N: *bows to readers feet* I know, I know and I am sorry! I blame school? And just life in general.

Disclaimer: Public Domain!

Re-Cap: Watson is currently in the hospital, attempting to recover from malaria. Holmes is on a ship headed to France to find him (real-time). Journal-wise, Watson is wondering if he can ever forgive Holmes and Holmes is in the middle of his confrontation with Sir Henry.

Ch. 17-The Relative Interventions

8 August, 1894

Despite having to force myself to stop and consume some sort of sustenance or face imminent collapse, I shall continue this account, no matter how distasteful it may seem to me. This is part of my self-punishment; I am forcing myself to endure the emotions of the discovery which in consequence make me _feel_ just as wretched the second time as it did the first. I have seriously contemplated whether or not this entire endeavor of finding Watson in the hopes of setting this right is not sheer folly. Will he not spurn me, banishing me from his presence, declaring that I have utterly destroyed whatever regard that he possessed for me? If he were to do so, I would hold no grudges against him for it and quietly bow out of the scene, returning to England and Baker Street and fulfill the earlier vow of ending my life. I would wish him a happy life and beg God, the Devil or both that he would discover love with a worthier soul than me.

I have no clues in which I might extrapolate a prediction of how our first meeting will play out and that lack of knowledge is flaying the very last of my nerves. In order to pass the time and take my mind away from my ever-present anxieties, I shall resume from where I left off.

There is no doubt that this situation has caused me to run the gamut of emotions, but I had never before experienced such an attack of anger that I have literally seen 'red' as others had claimed. But as the baronet's words began to truly sink in, a hazy red cloud obscured my vision and I am ashamed to admit that my first instinct was to tackle the man to the ground, wrap my hands around his neck, and demand that he repeat his last statement. The thought of Watson with anyone else, but especially another man, was enough to shove me clean over the edge of reason and I readily admit that I was non-too stable to begin with. Still, despite this, I managed to refrain from assaulting Sir Henry, but only because I was frozen in shock.

Words failed me for only a few seconds before I was able to squeeze out a rather breathy, "What did you say?"

The grim smile and shark-like look in those dark blue eyes demonstrated that he was clearly enjoying the pain this was causing. It is natural for one to snipe at your rival and even though I previously was unaware, Sir Henry obviously categorized me as such.

"As your hearing, just like everything else, is so obviously failing you, I shall do so. When John," Just his saying my Watson's forename set my teeth on edge, "stated in no uncertain terms that the two of you were _not_ lovers and he feared your reaction should he make any advances in such a direction, I asked plainly if he would allow me to win his heart for my own." Here the bitterness of his tone took on new lows. "He was uncertain he would even be able to give me a fair chance to win it as he believed it was not his to give. No," he hissed, "it was _yours_. He had gifted it to _you_, Mr. Holmes, and you've done a right bang up job of taking care of what should be considered the most prized possession on either side of the Atlantic."

The power of the emotions was frankly making me rather dizzy and for a moment I feared that I would faint from the sheer force of it. This man, this insignificant man had schemed to remove Watson, _my_ Watson, from my side and claim him as his very own. The anger that thought conjured was enough to nearly blind me, but the appalling thought that he might have _succeeded_ in doing so because of how I have treated Watson in the past due to my ignorance and—worse—how I have recently sent him to near depths of despair because of my jealous rage, suffocated nearly all else.

I do not deserve Watson in any shape or form; I have previously stated so before in this dreadful account and will likely do so again before this nightmare ends—if it ends. My doctor is a creature of light while I am one of darkness. While I may wish to resist, I am forever drawn to his flame and want nothing more than to bask in the warmth of his regard. It was such an easy task in those early days of our acquaintance and while our friendship was a new and shiny thing I treasured it so and cursed the day these wretched feelings muddled the waters between us. It was those feelings that helped drive us down this course and if it was within my power I would reverse time and simply confront Watson with my feelings laying myself bare before him and hope beyond hope that he would not turn me way.

Good God in Heaven—how could I have been so blind?

Despite this world whirlwind that was playing havoc upon me, these words escaped.

"Watson is _mine."_

This brought the baronet up short, halting him from launching into what would no doubt prove to be another diatribe on my unworthiness of the good Doctor. "What?"

"I said Watson is _mine,_ is your hearing failing _you_, Sir Henry?" I was building steam now, the words forming of their own accord. "John Watson belongs to me and no other, just as I do to him though I am clearly unworthy of such position. You know this as do I though clearly he does not for if that were so he would've given up upon me and directed his affections toward a worthier subject. As he is not yet done so, I will use every power I possess to find him and beg his forgiveness. If he would find himself unable to grant that forgiveness, I will do as he bid me and if that means leaving his presence forever I shall do so. If he wishes me to return him to you, I shall do so. I will grant him whatever is within my power and if it is not I shall attempt it anyway.

You see, Sir Henry, you have imparted to me the very clue that has eluded me during this entire affair. Watson _loves_ me. I use present tense until such time as I have spoken to him upon the matter. How does it feel, sir, to love a man who does not love you back in the same manner as you do?" By his blanched expression niceties he knew exactly which feelings I was referring to. "That is the hell in which I have resided for well over a decade. I can honestly say that it is enough to drive one mad and while it is not an excuse for my actions, it goes a long way toward explaining them. So I thank you, sir, for your opinion on this matter, but I would rather you tell me where my Watson has gone."

The pasty countenance swiftly flooded to read once more and he pointed a shaking finger to the door.

"Get out."

I stood my ground. "Tell me," I demanded.

The baronet swung away from me and snatched a beautiful, and deadly, dueling pistol from its case on a nearby shelf and pointed it in my direction with the cool gaze, some drawing the hammer back.

You will leave my home this instant, Mr. Holmes, and henceforth find yourself unwelcome and unwanted within it. Should you feel brave enough to venture here again I will not hesitate to shoot you for trespassing. So, I say again, get out."

Knowing that it would be most unwise to press the baronet further, for he clearly stood upon a knife's edge and I cannot afford any bullet holes, I retreated. Retrieving the borrowed mount from the stables and, gaining the necessary information of where to return it, I set about doing so. I normally would not have bothered with such a task, but having not received what I come for, I need the mindless task to allow myself the chance to plot my next move. My visit with Sir Henry had been both exhilarating and equal parts disheartening. Watson _loved_ me! It was simply more that I could comprehend at the moment I just knew that if I could find Watson he would help me understand.

But where to look? Sir Henry's lips were indefinitely sealed upon the matter and I knew with the utmost certainty he would admit nothing even he if he were tortured. As much as I hate him for it, and the fact that I have a _rival_, I could understand his wish to protect Watson. After all, I am the one that drove him away; I broke him, is it not my duty to amend him?

My thoughts were stalled momentarily when I discovered that I had arrived at my destination. The father of the unfortunate child and Dr. Mortimer were speaking quietly just outside the small home. The two men shook hands as I dismounted and Dr. Mortimer stared at me with honest surprise even as the other man retrieved his horse.

"Mr. Holmes? I did not expect—I thought he would be at Baskerville Hall. Is everything all right with Sir Henry? Is he in need of assistance?"

My lips twitched and I wondered over the irrational urge to laugh at the question. "Sir Henry is well, though, as you said, in need of cheering up. I am afraid that my trip here wasn't for naught and I must be returning to London."

The doctor shook his head and offered to take me to the train station, an offer I readily accepted. During the journey, Dr. Mortimer did not attempt to engage me in conversation, able to tell, no doubt, that I was not in the mood for it. It was only when we were nearly halfway there when some of my intellect returned to me and I was struck with the thought. "Dr. Mortimer, do you know where this friend of Sir Henry's might've gone?" At the other's confusion I pressed on. "He may hold vital information to a very important case and I am most anxious to speak with him."

After what seemed an eternity the doctor reached his decision and slowly nodded his head. "As I said before, Mr. Jameson's health was precarious and when he expressed a wish to leave Baskerville Hall, I suggested a visit to France, Paris in particular, in the hopes that the city would revive him, for he struck me as a man of the metropolis rather than the countryside. He took my suggestion to heart and booked passage to the very next day. He told Sir Henry that if he wished to contact him to do so at the Lion Hotel."

Unable to contain smile at this unexpected good fortune I think the man for the information and pulled my hat over my eyes, now able to rest with a promising lead within my grasp.

It is now merely an hour before we dock and the anxiety is once more beginning to build. What would be said; what would be done? Despite all my worries I will see this through—I will see this resolved.

I am coming for you my Watson.

End CH. 17

A/N: I know I promised this sooner and I can't tell you how sorry I am. But school is over now and supposedly I will have more time to myself. Most of this is written the ending is done. Maybe now I'll get off my happy behind and actually finish it for all of you. If any of my reviewers are still out there apologize again for making you wait so long I hate seeing it done to me with my stories and I hate doing it to you.


	18. The Journey's End

A/N: And here it is, the moment we have all been waiting for. I hope it doesn't disappoint!

Disclaimer: Public Domain!

Chapter 18 – At Journey's End

Forgiveness. It was the topic of my previous entry – inevitably this entire journal – and continues to be so.

My thoughts on the subject of forgiving Holmes – and the preposterous notion that Holmes would seek such forgiveness – were becoming rather circular and, with my journal held securely to my chest, I followed my rather nosy neighbor into the land of dreams.

It was two days before I saw the forward Frenchman again and he let loose a gasp of dismay upon viewing me.

"Mon petit, you look absolutely ghastly! I had believed you were getting better."

The honest concern that colored the man's tone allowed me to release some of the irritation that still plagued me from our last encounter. It did not, however, contain my grim smile.

"I am afraid that the question you posed to me has been enough to rob me of any sleep."

I was heartily surprised by the determined, and decidedly unapologetic, expression that settled on the elders face.

"I'm glad that you are giving the problem the attention that it deserves, but I do hope that it will not continue to trouble you for too much longer."

Frustrated, as well as supremely exhausted, I tossed my hands in the air before wheeling myself away from the meddling menace before I gave in to the urge to strangle him. Settling into my new spot I opened my journal but found, to my dismay, that I had nothing new to add. As it stood, my hand shook too much to be of any use to me and in a fit of pique I threw my pen away. I regretted a moment later for now I was without any means with which I might distract myself and I was fast approaching the point of pulling what remained of my hair from my scalp.

The sad fact of the matter was that I was in no condition to do much of _anything_ which might relieve me of contemplating the situation (and that question) at length. I was bed ridden, or as close as one might be without actually being so, and clearly at an impasse over this entire situation. _Why_ would it not all _go away_? Why was my every waking thought consumed with thoughts of him? I had hoped that this journal would exercise his demon from my soul, but instead I found my mind could not be pulled onto any other topic. Perhaps it was the fever, but I could no longer simply empty my head of thoughts as I had at the beginning of this trial.

I had left London, left England to escape Holmes. But how was I to escape him inside my own mind? It was foolish to even contemplate the thought of him rushing to my side with an apology on his lips.

With that discouraging thought, I tucked the journal away at my side so that no curious busybodies might have the urge to snoop and closed my eyes. I had not managed any proper sleep in the past few days and a nap would not all be amiss – if I could manage it.

Voices brought me back to reality and I opened my eyes a fraction in hopes of discovering who was causing such a stir. By the position of the shadows in the room I would hazard to guess I'd managed only an hours worth of sleep. My limbs felt as though they had been suffused with lead and I would have been very happy to return to the land of dreams and, indeed, I had allowed my eyes to fall shut when I heard the voice that drove all thoughts of sleep for my body.

"I _must_ see him!"

Sherlock Holmes.

At first I believe that my mind had stooped to a new level of trickery and this was the first sign that I truly _was_ losing my mind.

But then I heard it again.

"Madame, he is a good friend, one that I am sorry that I ever lost sight of and frankly I was _horrified_ to learn he was ill. And, quite frankly, Madame, it will take more than you or any personnel within this hospital to keep me from his bedside."

I was _not_ the hearing things. He was here – he was here for me I was certain – but why? Why had he come? To gaze upon the ruin that I had become? To finish what he started?

To save me?

"He is very ill, monsieur, he has slept very poorly these last few days. He is only just managed to fall asleep and I will _not_ have him disturbed!"

Ah! So it was Nurse Blain who is barring access to me. She stood as my guard, but I did not hold out much hope that she would succeed. I know/knew Holmes. Once the bit was between his teeth he would not rest until he achieved his goal.

And it now seemed as though _I_ was his goal.

Shivers wracked my body at the thought of him coming near me and I wasn't entirely certain if fear was their source – or hope. I was at a loss as to what I would do. He was here – it was simply not possible! Why? Why?

Wild thoughts galloped through my brain, each more ridiculous than the last. I was well and truly trapped. There was nothing to be done, I told myself, but to wait. I forced my fist to unclench and the rest of my body into some form of relaxation. While it reluctantly obeyed, there was nothing to be done about my somersaulting stomach, or my rampaging heart. It was all that I could do to keep my breathing from escaping my control and I greatly feared I would not be able to maintain the charade for long.

Once I had attained a modicum of success, I allow myself to listen into the conversation once more. It was not overly shocking to discover that Nurse Blain had capitulated to my friend's insistent demands and he was even now making his way in my direction. It was clear that he was doing his best to mask his approach, though to my overly attentive ears every footfall was as loud as a gunshot. A slight scrape and faint squeak – he had drawn a chair close and seated himself within it – then silence once more.

What was he thinking? Despite years of constant exposure to his methods, I was certain that I would never see the world in quite the same manner as he did. I often had the fanciful notion that it must be something akin to being pelted constantly by rocks and the only way to protect himself, to make sense of it all, _was_ to develop his methods of deduction. It allowed him to be in control and to not allow the sensory input to control _him_.

So what was it that he saw now? Did he note my darkened hair? It would be several more washings before it returned to its original color. Or perhaps my deathly pallor and sunken cheeks drew his attention? Was the nightshirt and dressing gown enough to hide my weight loss? Perchance it would be...

But it was none of those and any further contemplation of the matter was cut short as trembling fingers ghosted over my upper lip, mourning, it would seem, my lack of mustache.

"John." It was a mere half breath, but it held so much. Pain, anger, loss, despair – it was as though I had been allowed to view the path straight to his heart. I could not prevent my eyes from flying open no more than he could contain the flinch when I did so, but he did not withdraw and I did not move away. His fingers continue to trace the path of my shorn mustache, but his eyes refused to meet mine, instead traveling over my entire person as I imagined they had already done.

He called me John. Not once in our entire acquaintance could I recall my forename passing his lips. I understood why of course; it was to keep us at a distance, and for me to be clear on the fact that I should keep my distance from him. To allow yourself to be touched was only to invite pain as I knew from first-hand experience.

But now – he spoke my name is if it were an invocation (benediction?), as if invoking my name I would be able to magically heal the grievous wound that lay across us. Would that it were so simple. To those untrained in the art of watching Sherlock Holmes, they would believe him perfectly composed, but I... I could see the cracks in the mask. Some were deep, harsh, yet others were fine and slight.

But he… I found myself blinking as my slowed mind finally caught up with what was truly before me and quite involuntarily, I found myself leaning forward to examine him more carefully. I had always admired his high cheekbones, but now they were like sharp points instead of rounded curves, their peaks splashed with high color even as the rest of his face likely shared a pallor that was similar to mine. Even if his hair was recently washed – I would even go so far as to say that it was still _damp_ – it fell free of his habitual lime cream and a delightful mess curls that caused sudden itch within my fingers for the want of running them through it. His clothing was wrinkled and stained with travel, but what caused the thrill of alarm to shoot through my chest was how it practically hung from his frame. Holmes never had an ounce of fat to spare, but now he must be positively _skeletal_.

What could have possibly caused this? What caused him to push his body so close to collapse? Surely it was not, and I swallowed thickly at this thought, my _perverse_ desires for him. Why should that have been a concern? Once I was banished from his presence he should have never given me another thought.

And yet, here he was.

I had this simultaneous urge to cause such a ruckus that he would immediately be removed or to turn away from him, dismissing him in much the same way that he dismissed me. But I was not one to allow others to fight my fight nor was I a coward. And as much as I wished to beat him with my fist to return the pain that he caused me, I would not. He did not deserve it and I did not possess the energy. It seemed as though he endured his own brand of hardship, if the badly hidden bruise was any evidence.

But why would he not bloody well speak?

We were to get nowhere if I was to allow him to continue in this manner, waiting for him to gather his courage. I was tired and impatient and therefore took matters into my own hands. I grasped his chin firmly despite my shaking hand and tilted his head till our eyes met.

"Sherlock," I commanded – and oh how strange that name felt upon my tongue and lips! – "Speak."

He flinched though my voice was not harsh and closed his eyes, gasping out, "What would you have me say?"

My lips thinned of their own accord and I gave his head a little shake. "Look at me!" My sharp tone brought immediate results. "Now, say what you came to say."

Now that our eyes were locked together I was shocked at the amount of emotions that shone through the normally expressionless gray orbs. While his face might retain the ragged remains of a mask his eyes did not. His every thought was wide open for the viewing. Little wonder he would not allow me to see them before!

What was perhaps most amazing of all were the two emotions that seem to fight for dominance – fear and shame.

But what could he possibly be afraid of? I certainly possessed not even an iota of strength and could in no way harm him. And what did he have to be ashamed of? I held no knowledge of his activities beyond The Incident and therefore unaware of any reason why he might be ashamed. It would be terribly narcissistic on my part to believe that I might be the origin of either one of these emotions.

Unless… I _was_.

Despite whatever Sherlock Holmes had done to me by way of harm, I still own the urge to soothe his distress and he was clearly distressed.

Releasing his chin I raise my other hand and cradled his head between my palms, one thumb absently stroking a protruding cheekbone.

"Please, Sherlock," I pleaded, "I'm listening."

His eyes fluttered shut at my new touch and long fingers closed around my wrists, holding them in place.

"I am a _fool_," he whispered plainly. I must've made some involuntary sound of protest, for he slowly shook his head, releasing a bitter chuckle, before opening his eyes to meet mine. "I've not done one thing, one _damn_ thing in my entire life to deserve a person such as you."

There was that bitter chuckle again and I must confess that it sent a shiver down my spine.

"John – I fear you've been lying to the public for years with your stories – and, I must confess, that I have read every one – for how can I claim to be a master of deduction when I was completely blind to what was before me, and have been so for years?" His hands left my wrists as he finished, unable to remain still any longer, and he withdrew handkerchief from his coat pocket. It was such an unconscious maneuver that it was quite obvious, when combined with the signs of wear it sported, that it was a habit he had indulged in a great deal of late.

And despite its soiled state and the fingers that were gripping it in a rather spasmodic fashion, I recognized it as one of my own.

I… was not certain what to make of that.

"I meant what I said!" He spit out suddenly after a long moment of silence. His outburst drew my attention away from the handkerchief but once more, it seemed, he was unwilling to look at me. "That day, when I drove you away," he eventually clarified after a brief pause, "I meant everything that I said."

In shock, I released his face, which had been sagging within my grasp, and drew back. It did not make the first bit of sense and I could not suppress the stab of pain in my chest at his confession. If he meant what he said at the time then why would… My thoughts ground to a halt as he lunged forward, dropping the handkerchief so that he might capture my retreating hands.

"No! That's not what I… What I truly meant was…" His sigh was just short of the bellow of frustration and his hands tightened reflexively around mine. "These emotions will be my downfall, for now they have stolen my prepared speech and replaced it with garbled nonsense."

For the moment we had descended back into silence as Holmes gathered his wits about him and I waited with rather morbid curiosity to know what he might say. I readily admit that, even now, I can only record snatches of my feelings as I cannot accurately recall what they were and there were far too many to ascribe names to them all. I was overjoyed and terrified to see him. I wanted him to leave immediately and never abandon my side again. I wanted to hit him and hold him. It was all beginning to become rather too much and I wondered that if I continued to contain it, would I not explode from the sheer pressure?

"That day," he began again, interupting my internal musings, "I _did_ mean what I said, because _at the time_ I was operating under false assumptions."

"You never just _assume_ anything," I could not resist pointing out.

He ducked his head much like a chastened schoolboy. "You would be correct in most instances. My emotions clouded my judgment and led me to false deductions over our situation. I then acted on these erroneous conclusions which led me to harm you in ways I did not know I was capable of." His thumb, of its own accord, began to stroke my hand. I was not certain if the gesture was meant to soothe him or me, but some part of me began to unwind at the movement.

"What was it that pitched you into such a fever?"

His lips quirked upwards and he dared to glance up. "You," he answered simply. "It is always been and ever shall be you, my dear John." His gaze fell once more. "For weeks after my return I waited. Surely, I thought, surely you could not forgive me so easily. I left you! I abandoned you at those wretched falls with the belief that I had died. I knew you would blame yourself for having left me to my supposed to doom to chase what was nothing more than a wild goose. But I had too!" His eyes darted to mine, wild with the need for me to understand. "Moran was hunting us and I could not allow him to turn his sights upon you!" His eyes fell once more. "So I ran as far and fast as I could, knowing I was the central game, the ultimate tiger for the old shikar."

His thumb ceased its caress and instead he now inspected my hand as though it was the most fascinating piece of evidence he had ever seen. Every digit was examined, each joint tested, palm traced, and nail circled. I had seen Holmes treat other things in such a manner, but never had I been the focus of that intense scrutiny and to be so now with a heady sensation. The touches, I was surprised to find, were also very relaxing and I found that a sigh escaped before it could be contain it. Holmes, I noted wryly, seemed pleased to have caused this reaction.

"I did my best to be rid of them, you know." His comment seemed random and pulled me from the sleepy state I begin to sink into.

"You speak, as always, in riddles," I said.

"It is no riddle, merely a continuance," he corrected. "You wanted to know what caused me to treat you in such a villainous manner, and I am attempting, rather poorly to do so."

Ah, now that sounded like the Holmes I knew!

"I worked myself into such a state, after which I've contrived that dastardly plan, because of my feelings for you."

I held my breath, hardly following. His feelings for me? In what roundabout manner could they _possibly_ have anything to do with it?

"Just what feelings," I demand quietly, "were those?"

His whole body jerked at the question and his hand clasped mine, intertwining the fingers.

"My hope, my fear, my joy, my admiration," he paused, drawing in a deep breath before stuttering in his quietest whisper, "my love."

I had always believed and still believe it to be an unforgivable cliché to state that the world stopped at such declarations, but now I could say that there's some truth behind it. What little of the world had intruded upon us fell away and my ability to breathe momentarily failed me. Love? Love! What was this? What love? The love of a friend, of a brother, more?

Even as I puzzled over this, a new and rather more distressing thought sprang to mind. What if he had discovered my hidden regard for him and this was, in some horrible manner, his plan to lure me back so that he might finish what he started?

No! Holmes would not treat me in such a vile manner, how could I even believe that to be true?

But had he not done so already?

Any further thoughts were brought to a halt by the sudden tight grip upon my hand.

"Please," Holmes pleaded, "say something!"

I merely blinked at him, unable to give voice to the chaos he had stirred within me.

One of his hands rose to grip my shoulders, giving me a little shake. "John!"

"You are lying," stumbled from my mouth before I could stop it.

Holmes reared back as though I had struck him, releasing both my hand and my shoulder.

"No! I would never… How could you say such a thing?"

"It would not be the first time," I returned bitterly, wrapping my arms around myself and turning my head away, "that you have done so to achieve your ends. I am heartily tired of being cast the fool in your melodramas, and would thank you to not do so now." My eyes stung and I closed them in a vain hope to stave off the coming tears. "If you have finished, I must ask you to leave. I am very tired and wish to sleep." I turned away from his stunned visage completely and burrowed within my blanket. For a moment there was silence, and then I heard the telltale squeak of a chair being relieved of its burden. It was in that moment that I allowed the tears to win. He was leaving, _I_ had been the one to send him away, I…

But the footsteps did not retreat as I expected, but instead circled my chair. Two cold hands clasped my face and lifted it to the light. Through the haze of tears I could just make out the detective.

"I do love you, John Watson, possibly more than I ought and whether or not you choose to believe me, I am not lying. I've been a fool not see what was right in front of me all along, but you must understand, I have no prior experience with the notion of love, but, I am certain, if there ever existed the perfect match for me, it is you. I would hope you would believe the same and yet I would not blame you if you didn't. I have treated you vilely – for that all I can do is apologize and beg that you will allow me to make it up to you. If you are unwilling to allow this and wish that I would vanish from your sight, I will certainly do so." Leaning forward, he bestowed a chaste kiss upon my forehead. "I will leave you now to think for I have upset you enough for one day. I am staying at the Lion," his lips quirked into a quick smile, "the very room in which you stayed. There your queen and I will await your answer one way or another."

"My queen?" Was all that I could manage.

"I believe you named her Regina. She is indeed very," he cocked his head to the side as he searched for the word that might best describe my feline companion, "queenly," he finally decided.

Standing, he clasped one of my hands in his own and brushed a kiss across the knuckles. "Whatever your final answer may be, John Watson, remember that I love you." With those final words he seemed to vanish – he was suddenly gone between one blink in the next.

With no tangible proof that he'd ever been present at all, I was uncertain what to think. A hysterical laugh began to bubble up within me. Had I conjured him? Was he simply a product of my sleep deprived, fever-addled mind? Jean-Luc had planted the thought of Holmes returning to rescue me as though I were some damsel in distress from a fairytale, was it not conceivable that my mind had taken the idea and created this hallucination? Was I not mad? Why add to the torment?

These damning thoughts circled and pecked at my sanity, for I still believed that the notion of Holmes returning to my side was absurd.

It was too much, just too much.

As if my discordant thoughts were enough to summon him, Holmes once more appeared at my side with concern glistening in his gray eyes.

"John, what is this? What is wrong?"

"What is wrong," I choked out between laughs, "is that you are nothing but an illusion, my mind conjuring up its greatest tricks to further torment me! I cannot have you and my sanity…"

The flow of words was abruptly halted by a pair of soft, dry lips closing over mine. It was brief, abrupt, demanding and slightly awkward.

It was purely Holmes.

Before I could begin to process the action (and I heartily doubted if even the most elaborate hallucination would be able to do that!) it ended and Holmes seized one of my hands, pressing it flat against his chest.

"Feel my heart, Doctor! I am as real as you and grieved you believe the only manner in which this might happen is in your fevered dreams. It speaks of just how deep and grievous the wound that I have inflicted upon you is. Please believe me, John, if I could erase that I would, but since I cannot, I will employ all my powers to seeing it and you healed."

Beneath my hand I could feel his heart beating slightly faster than it should, no doubt due to the distress he was currently suffering from. But at the moment I did not care because it was _there_! It is a terribly narcissistic claim, but of all the heartbeats I have felt during my tenure as a doctor, I always believed that I could pick his out above the rest. And if this was his heartbeat then…

"You're truly here."

A small, sad smile creased his face. "I truly am."

"Holmes," I stated plainly, "you hurt me terribly and by all rights I should never wish see you again."

His expression did not change but I glimpsed the first tendrils of new fear beginning to take hold in his eyes. "Is that what you wish?"

I sighed and pulled my hand from his chest now that I was thoroughly convinced he was real and rubbed my face with it. "I have been asked if I could forgive you by more than one person. It is a question, along with _why _you would do this and what I was to do with myself now, that has plagued me since the beginning. So much of what I am is tangled with you that I sometimes wonder where I ended and you begin.

And yet… When I should not care in the slightest, I wish to know how you would make it up to me."

I have seen many expressions upon that handsome face, but never before had I seen it alight with a look of such gratitude that he fairly glowed with it. He had won; I had given in. It was hard won for both of us and it was entirely too soon to say if it was a victory not. And in truth, I had not forgiven him, not yet, and I believe he'd deduced that.

But I was giving him a chance which would seem to be more than he had expected to be granted.

Following upon the heels of gratitude was the most beautiful smile I have ever had the pleasure to see. He gently captured one of my hands within his and stroked his thumb across the top.

"Thank you," he whispered, briefly bringing my captured hand to his lips. "My first order of business would be to remove you from this wretched establishment. It's little wonder you have had minimal success in healing."

"Holmes," I protested immediately, though I could feel a smile threatening to come forth. "This is a perfectly acceptable hospital. It is exceptionally clean and the staff both competent and caring."

"But you are not getting better," he pointed out.

The smile surfaced although it had morphed into a sad one. "I had no reason to."

He held his breath. "And now?"

"Now I do."

"You have no objections to my plan so far?"

I shook my head.

"You are obviously not strong enough to return to England yet, but a short trip to the Lion should not be beyond your strength at the moment."

"No, I do not think so."

"Excellent! Then you shall allow me to wait upon you until you are well enough to return to Baker Street." Here he paused, clearly hesitating with his next question. "That is, if you wish to return to Baker Street?"

I smiled over his hesitation and gave his hand a squeeze. "I should like nothing better though I must confess that I believed that I should never see England, let alone our rooms, again."

"You will." The force of the answer was a direct challenge to anything that should deny it coming to pass "Once we are home, and you safely and ensconced your room once more..."

"My room?" I interrupted, unable to stop myself. "But I thought..." I did not finish the sentence, but the flush of my cheeks made it clear what wasn't said. It was gratifying to see an identical one staining my... What_ was _he to me now?

"While it is very gratifying to know that you wish to be there, it will not do, at least, not yet."

My brow furrowed. "And why not?" It was not indignation that colored my tone, just honest curiosity.

He frowned a bit. "John, I thought you would know considering..." He trailed off, the flush upon his cheeks darkening. "That is to say, is it not customary to court ones beloved first? My research into this matter has led me to that conclusion."

Court? He planned to court me? The wild urge to laugh over the notion rose, but was easily suppressed. Holmes, my Holmes who had shown nothing but disdain for those 'soft emotions' and took great pleasure in ridiculing those who indulged in what he considered to be useless frivolities? I had always been so careful, so I believed, to search for deception behind such rants on the subject, but had failed utterly in doing so.

At my silence, Holmes hesitated again. "While I will be the first to admit that I am entirely out of my depth, was I wrong for drawing such a conclusion?"

His question snapped me from my thoughts and I gave a little chuckle, shaking my head. "No, you are entirely correct." The thought of being courted by the consulting detective, who paid attention to every detail, warmed a place within me that I'd long though cold. "And just how, if I may be permitted to ask, are you planning on courting me?"

His expression gained a certain aloofness and he sniffed at me disdainfully. "For now I believe that shall remain my secret." Despite his stern expression, I could not fail to note the mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Now, even a month later, his plan of courtship is entirely unknown to me. At least, his _formal_ courtship. The manner and attention he has paid to me seems a courtship all its own, though I don't believe he would see it as such, unused as he is to such romantic matters. While I am aware of the formal steps of courtship, and have engaged in such rituals in the past myself, I always found it a bit artificial. It is the details that are important and Sherlock has always given due attention to details.

For example, though he had wished to remove me from the hospital immediately, it was some seven days before I was released into his care. But everyday, _everyday_ he returned to my bedside bringing books, more ink and other odd bits to keep me occupied. He spoke to me for hours on end, fleshing out his previous explanation as to how we had ended up in the situation we had found ourselves in. My favorite distraction, however, was his violin.

I was surprised that he had it. He usually did not allow it to leave Baker Street for fear that it would be damaged. When I questioned him about it, he tilted his head and offered a peculiar smile.

"I thought it might be useful."

And indeed it was. I would stake my reputation as a doctor on the fact that I left the hospital as soon as I did because of that much loved instrument. Sherlock spent many an hour playing, chasing the demons of my dreams away and I heartily believe that it was not just I, but the entire ward that benefited from playing.

But now we are home once more in Baker Street. I am still very ill and Sherlock has explained that he will not begin his courtship until I am at full capacity once more. I look forward to that day with ever growing anticipation and delight for I wonder how he could possibly court me any more than he already has. We are rediscovering one another as we had not after Reichenbach, both too frightened to approach the other. Perhaps the most delightful thing that I have found thus far was Sherlock's realization that in order to take care of me, he must first take care of himself. He has been eating and sleeping on a regular basis, declaring to all that he shall not take another case until I could once more be at his side.

At his side. I left London, left England to escape him only to discover that in the end there was no escape, for either one of us. I don't know if we will succeed as lovers, but I do know that we will be embarking on this new path, as we should with every endeavor, together.

John H. Watson, 1894

End Ch. 18

A/N: *deep breath* So? This and the next chapter are the big ones and next we shall see this from Holmes's point of view. I hope you like it! Sorry for the wait.


	19. It Draws to an End, It Has Only Begun

Ch. 19-It Draws to an End, It has Only Begun

I am not entirely certain there is a valid reason for me to continue this journal, but John assures me that there is. He is convinced that it will alleviate the frankly alarming amount of nightmares that I have suffered as of late, but I fail to see the logic of it. To which he replies that when it comes to emotions, especially fear, logic holds little sway. There is a rather rebellious part of me that wishes to ignore my John's advice and continue on as before (which consisted of me insisting that _he _was all that I needed). The first time that I made this point, my John gifted me with a most beautiful smile and a hand squeeze.

"You may be certain that you have me, Sherlock, but you still have fears and you need to work through them. I know you are not ready to talk to me about them, not yet, but you must let them out in a safe manner. Stuffing them away in a bottle just because they are unpleasant is how we landed ourselves in this situation in the first place and I can honestly speak for both of us, I believe, when I say we are not ready to go through that foolishness again."

Just the thought of my John being lost from my side again is enough to send chills throughout my entire body, and a panicked chant of 'nonononono' through my brain. Even if it costs me the very last breath in my body, I _will_ stop that from ever happening again.

As my doctor clearly has more experience in these matters than I, I have bowed gracefully to his suggestion and lifted my pen to fulfill his request. After making a mental review of my nightmares, it is a safe conclusion that they revolve around my first meeting with John in the hospital after my deplorable behavior towards him. That meeting could have gone wrong in so many ways—so many—and my brain has been ceaseless in its efforts to calculate each and every one.

Ah. Perhaps this is what my John was trying to communicate with me. If I were to place on paper exactly what _did_ happen, then it is entirely possible that I will begin to believe it.

Right then, from the beginning.

The note that was given to me by the maid of the Lion Hotel, which I keep safely tucked in the back of this journal, was short and concise.

_That which you seek now resides at the Royal Hospital under that hidden name. Come with an apology in hand or do not come at all._

It was not signed and though I was clearly occupied by the contents of the message itself, another part of my brain was busy deducing all it could from the note. Good weight paper without being overly expensive. Curiously an English manufacture, not French. The hand was male, weak but firm, possibly from age or illness, or more likely both. The smell that lingered, despite residing in the maid's pocket for well over two days, was the scent I had come to associate with hospitals.

What was most telling and that lent authentication to the note was the fact that the man had used _my doctor's pen_. I would know the stroke of John Watson's pen, even when not used my him, before I would know my own.

I was moving even before I realised it, dismissing the maid from my thoughts as I rushed to the streets to hail a cab. It was only once I was safely seated and in route to my destination, that I began to wonder how the author of that note knew that I would be in that hotel. It was quickly chased away by the more crippling thought of _what I was going to say to John_ once we were face to face. I had given it some thought, but none of the results were satisfactory and John deserved the very best I could give him.

My John, my noble John; what could I possibly say to him that would be adequate enough to convey that I think myself a fool and unworthy of forgiveness, but that he is the very thing that keeps my heart beating? Much as part of me disdained at the thought of the romantic drivel I was contemplating, another part did not care, for John would like because John is a romantic. That is what two people who love each other do for each other—they are romantic.

So how did I go about being romantic enough to win John back? Assuming, of course, that he forgave me.

It was this my mind chose to dwell on as we rattled ever closer to what ultimately would be my salvation or demise. My hand sank into one pocket and I was somewhat startled when I encountered the warm fur of the kitten I had rescued. It, apparently, was quite content as the vibration from its purrs leaked through my glove. Quite rebelliously my fingers began to stroke the small animal, the action inexplicably calming in its execution.

Would John be pleased that I had found her? He was obviously at least moderately attached to the beast if the excellent collar she sported was any indicator. Even as my mind overturned his possible reaction at her presentation, my attention was snared by a young couple on the street. The young fellow, like countless before, was wooing his fair maiden with an impressive bouquet of flowers. The maiden was clapping her hands in delight and the young man looked inordinately pleased with himself. Obviously still an early stage in his courtship plans.

Courtship! The resulting thunderbolt of an idea was rather impressive and it was all I could do to keep myself from squeezing the kitten by mistake. Of course, I thought triumphantly, _that_ was how I would win my John back! I would court him. He was such a wondrous creature—it was the sort of behavior he _deserved_. His attention should be courted, by man or woman, though if I have my way, no other than I shall ever have the privilege to do so. It would allow me to demonstrate how I believe he should be truthfully treated, like the prince among men that he is.

But will he allow me that honor?

That thought brought me crashing from my hopeful heights and the thought of my doctor _not_ forgiving me reestablished its strangle-like hold. Why would he? _I_ certainly have not given him reason to.

But I would.

My cab ride came to an end and I sprang forth, taking the stairs two at a time. Once inside I accosted the first nurse I could find and enquired into the whereabouts of my missing companion. My distress must have moved her, as I spared no energy in attempting to mask it, and she immediately led me up three floors, explaining that the man in question was resting in the sun room. Just shy of our destination, however, we were brought to a halt by a small nurse that possessed, if I am any judge, a formidable temper. Even now, she reminds me of our own remarkable Mrs. Hudson.

"_What is the meaning of this, Nurse?_´" she demanded in clipped French.

My escort was clearly startled and, to my dismay, very guilty.

"_He is here to see Monsieur Jameson,_" she admitted with a quick glance in my direction.

The small woman drew herself up to her full height, which admittedly could have been no higher than my chest, and dismissed the young girl with a glance. I will admit to a sharp flair of annoyance that caused the involuntary clenching of my fingers. John was so _close_, and it took every bit of my self-control (a much tried thing through this entire affair) not to swat the woman aside and search for him alone.

"Monsieur Jameson is extremely ill and should not be disturbed," she stated with such finality that my response exploded from me before I had time to examine it.

"I must see him!" It was desperate and anxious and louder than I had intended.

The deep disapproving frown that I received as a result was not at all reassuring. "And what is your business with him?"

I sucked in a deep breath, forcing my rapid heart to slow and to channel that desperation that would not be denied. "Madame, he is a good friend, one that I am sorry that I ever lost sight of and frankly I was _horrified_ to learn that he was ill. And also, quite frankly, Madame, it will take more than you or any personnel within this hospital to keep me from his bedside."

Despite my passionate response, I received little sympathy. "He is _very_ ill, monsieur, and has slept very poorly these last few days and I will _not_ have him disturbed!" Again I was reminded of our stout landlady with this turn of phrase, though at the time there was no connection.

My body was beginning to vibrate with the sheer force it took to hold myself in place and I am afraid that what mask I had been able to erect was beginning to crumble.

"Madame Nurse, please, I beg of you…" I inexplicably found myself at a loss for words. Her expression continued to be unrelenting.

"Do you fail to undertand the meaning of the word 'no', Monsieur…?" she trailed off, obviously waiting for me to supply my name.

"Sherlock Holmes." It did not even occur to me to supply a false one.

As if my words were a missing key, her face unlocked, though she still regarded me with some wariness. "Monsieur Holmes?"

"Yes," I confirmed, now cautiously optimistic, if wary of the cause of the change.

"I have been instructed to allow you to visit with Monsieur Jameson, should you happen to come." Her fingers twitched in her skirt, clearly not happy with the order, and only reluctantly obeying it. "If you will follow me, I will take you to him."

My relief was clearly displayed by my sigh, if not by my expression. "I will do my best to make certain that I do not disturb him overly much," I promised, though judging by the disparaging glance thrown in my direction, she was no way convinced. We had not far to travel, merely around the next corner. She halted just outside the open doorway and pointed to an invalid chair not three feet away.

"There are others here, Monsieur Holmes," she reminded me in a whisper, "_please_ make certain that you do not disturb them."

I bowed, murmuring my obedience to this one stricture. Mouth set in a thin line, the Head Nurse left me, and I waited until the smart click of her heels faded into the background.

There he was. There he was! My Watson, my John, the one being I would have—had—traversed Hell for in both the literal and figurative sense. Here lay the most critical juncture of my journey and all that need be done was for me to take a few short steps.

And yet I could not command my legs to move.

What was I to do? What was I to say? I had only just now decided on how I would attempt to win him back and even so, how did one go about courting another man? Should the same rules apply as those would for a woman? Research, I decided, research needed to be done and advice requested.

I should leave; return only when I had sufficiently prepared myself. John deserved no less. But I am self-aware enough to admit that if I were to turn my back now, I would be too much of a coward to return. For when it comes to matters of the heart, that is exactly what I am—a coward. It was my cowardice and inexperience that plunged us into this mess and by God I would see us out of it!

If only I could take that first step.

It was the near physical draw that I felt of having my beloved so close that eventually set my body in motion. At such a distance that I had previously stood, I could determine nothing of his condition. As I drew ever closer, my mind was thrown into overdrive, deducing every bit of evidence that came within view and (against my own cardinal rule), wildly speculating about so much more. It was a defense, an automatic reaction to which I had trained into myself. It was what created order in this world of chaos. But not now, not today, not when he looked like _this_.

I had not witnessed his body in such a ravished condition since we had first moved in together and the enteric fever had hardly released him from its grasph. He was dressed in light linen trousers and a shirt that was not fit to be worn in public, but certainly did not seem out of place here. Over that was his dressing gown, but you have never have known it for he seemed to drown within it. The white of the pillow beneath his head was a near perfect match for the pallor of his own skin. The contrast was all the sharper for the darkness of his dyed hair.

My eyes trailed down from the crown of his head, cringing at the dark bruises under his eyes that spoke of how little he had slept, grimacing at the hollowness of his cheeks. I will admit, I nearly missed it but when I realised what was absent from John's face, my knees gave way beneath me. I was forced to a nearby chair to stave off my imminent collapse.

His moustache! How could he? I understood the logic behind the decision (just as I understood why he would choose to flee in the first place), but in my near distraught state, its loss was the harshest blow of all. My John has little to no vanity when it comes to his appearance, even if he took special care to always make certain that he was presentable. I had known why of course; during his recovery it was especially important to him for it was one of the few aspects of his life over which he had complete control. Once he had recovered sufficiently that I felt it was unnecessary (Heaven only knew that I did not dress when the fit struck me) for him to maintain such a habit, I inquired into the reason. His argument was beautiful in its simplicity.

"I am a doctor, my dear Holmes, and as such might be called out at any time. I do not want the care I might provide to be delayed simply because I did not wish to dress that morning!" The stern glance at my own attire at the time I am certain was meant to illustrate that point.

But his moustache! It was fine, full-bodied, and always trimmed to military standards. It was his one vanity when it came to his appearance. As for myself, I had always secretly coveted it and at the oddest moments, when the morning light would strike it, it seemed to transform into spun gold and I had the most absurd itch in my fingers as I resisted the urge to stroke it.

It seemed as thought, now, I was no longer able to resist the urge as my hand rose unbidden to stroke the bare upper lip.

"John." It was little more than a whisper, but it contained so much. Why did you leave? What do I do, John? How I can I make this up to you? What must I do? How can I do it?

Is there hope for us?

I wanted to be hopeful, to establish that certainty within myself that we could overcome this, that we would not be defeated by such a misunderstanding.

But when I witnessed the depth of the pain in those pale eyes as they snapped open at my touch, I felt that hope begin to falter and I sucked in a breath, flinching. Every question I had put to myself during this entire debacle rose once more to the surface. How? How could I have done this John whose loyalty I had never before doubted? As disgustingly poetic as it was, I was certain that I could see the very heart that I had broken reflecting back to me through those expressive orbs.

It was just a split second, but I had to look away, my chest constricting, and I found it especially difficult to breathe. What did he see with his doctor's eyes? My John had the unconscious practice of examining each person he met, assessing them medically even when there was no need. It was an automatic reaction, one at times I knew he was entirely unaware of. As one who had had it employed upon himself nearly every day of our acquaintance, I knew with absolute certainty that he was doing so now. Even if he were to deny it I knew it to be true. It was also true that I had used myself rather freely these last few weeks and it was my body that had suffered for it.

In my own turn, since I could no longer gaze upon his face, I found my eyes tracking down his body, a rather poisonous voice noting every little change (all for the worse) and calculating the numerous ways in which this was my fault. It was as I was losing myself in this activity that John broke the stalemate we had fallen into by grabbing my chin and forcing my head up till our eyes met.

"Sherlock." His voice! A much missed sound, roughened and low, but instilled with that inherent command he retained from the military. "Speak." It was Major Watson who was speaking to me, not my gentle doctor, and despite myself I flinched, closing my eyes so that he might not witness my shame.

"What would you have me say?" I gasped, unwilling and unable to not follow his command. What was I to say? Every speech that I had prepared had either fled or seemed entirely inadequate now that he was before me.

I was entirely surprised when he gave my head a little shake as though I were a recalcitrant child and growled a rather stern, "Look at me!" My eyes opened at once to lock with his and I was entirely at his mercy.

"Now say what you have come to say." Still Major Watson was speaking and it was easy to see that this commanding officer was not to be disobeyed. Briefly my mind conjured up images of him on the battlefield, expertly directing the troops to victory or safety with each and every soldier following him implicitly and without fear that he would lead them wrong. It was, I am ashamed to admit, an arousing line of thought, but one I banished as quickly as I could for this was neither the time or the place for such things.

Despite the order, however, and my urge to obey it, my lips remained sealed. I simply did not know what I was going to say (as I believe I have stated more than once already in this account) and as it had throughout this entire affair, my mind simply failed to produce anything of use.

As if sensing my dilemma, Major Watson retreated from the room and my gentle doctor came to the fore. He released my chin and enfolded my face within his gentle hands, one thumb stroking my cheek.

"Please, Sherlock," he pleaded, "I am listening."

Oh how have I resisted him for so long? My Watson, my doctor, my John! How can you be so kind to this wretched soul after all that I have put you through? My saint, my angel, how I do not deserve you! My eyes slipped closed once more, unable to view the gentle expression even one second more and latched onto the thin wrists, making certain they remained exactly where they were.

"I am a _fool_," I whispered the all too true statement. The immediate confusion and sound of protest was gratifying, but I shook my head, releasing a rather bitter chuckle, before I finally found the strength to meet his gaze. "I have not done one thing, one _damn_ thing in my entire life to deserve a person such as you."

The total, utter confusion pulled another morbid chuckle from the depths of my chest as finally, the words that I feared were beyond my grasp welled up to the surface.

"John, I fear you have been lying to the public for years with your stories—and I must confess that I have read every one—for how can I claim to be a master of deduction when I was completely blind to what was before me, and have been so for years?" Oh how he must have suffered! How had we inadvertently caused each other this pain and all the pain before it? It was only now, when I reached this final stage and John was there before me, when every bit of anguish and torment he had endured was written from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, that I was able to properly piece together the scraps of clues I had collected from those that who were involved in this had reluctantly released.

My hands fell from his wrists (I would not make him uncomfortable if I could at all help it) and reached for the one object that had helped to keep me on a somewhat even keel through this entire search. It was warmed by the kitten who continued to slumber beside it; no doubt she too drew comfort from it (I am certain she knew it was John's despite all of my handling). It was this, a handkerchief, that I drew from my pocket and succumbed to the habit that I had fallen into this last few days. What was once a fine piece of craftsmanship had been reduced to a mere scrap that was soiled and stretched nearly beyond all recognition. My fingers immediately fell to rending it further, completely unable to help myself. I would not be ashamed of this habit, I told myself, for truly it was all that kept me from indulging in the cocaine once more. The withdrawals this time had been horrendous, though thankfully I had still been in London though the worst of it. It had, however, made the train rides all the longer for the nausea that persisted.

The confusion cleared momentarily from my John's face as he realised what it was that I held, but swiftly returned when he began to wonder, no doubt, _why_ I had his handkerchief. I dipped my head, the words once more scrambled and unattainable. How was I to explain that this was the first step in the process of giving up the drug? Without my work my mind would descend into a chaos of sensory input of which it was difficult to climb back out of. My work, my puzzles, allowed me to focus and the chaos recedes somewhat. Before John, only the music that flowed from my violin was a worthy substitute, but with my doctor…Before I realised where my feelings had strayed, he was enough to keep me afloat. If I filled my senses with him, I was unlikely to slip into my odious black moods.

At least, that was true _before_ I realised I was in love with him.

Now I would need to explain this at some point in the future, but if I held any hope in mending this, I would need to lay all before him and allow him to pass judgment. But where should I begin?

"I meant what I said!" burst forth and I managed to contain the internal cringe of what I just allowed to leave my mouth. That was not how I wished to begin, but I ploughed onward, hoping to make the best of it.

Afraid that confusion would become a permanent fixture on John's face, I attempted to clarify. "That day, when I drove you away, I meant everything that I said."

The effect was immediate, and all together not what I hoped for, but how could I expect a better result with such a pitiable beginning? The effect of which I speak was the doctor immediately releasing my face, the shock and pain identical to that _Day_. Dear God, I _am_ a fool, and one that has no business being in the doctor's presence, but I would fix my mistake, by Jove, if it were the last thing I were to do.

I lunged forward, grasping his retreating hands within my own. The handkerchief drifted forgotten into my lap. "No! That's not what I …what I truly meant to say was…" They would not come; the words simply would _not_ form and I honestly believe, even now, that I have never been so frustrated in my entire life. I tightened my grip and pleaded with him to understand. "These emotions will be my downfall, for now they have stolen my prepared speech and replaced it with garbled nonsense." As far as excuses stand, I felt it a rather poor one, but I offered it nonetheless. As we descended into silence, and I gathered myself for another attempt, I found myself slipping into observing my Watson once more.

I had always taken great comfort in the knowledge that I was able to deduce any information that I wished from him. Now it was as though I were viewing an abstract painting of emotions, though if it were actually an abstract painting, I could have made more sense of it. While I have dealt with the worst of the emotions in my line of work, when they were applied to those familiar features, I found myself at a loss on how to identify them, never mind _dealing_ with them. But for John, I told myself, I would make every effort.

"That day," I began much more calmly, "I _did_ mean what I said, because at the time I was operating under false assumptions."

"You never just _assume_ anything," he observed and I ducked my head in embarrassment.

"You would be correct in most instances. My emotions clouded my judgment and led me to false deductions in regards to our situation. I then acted on those erroneous conclusions which led me to harm you in ways I did not believe myself to be capable of." I began to stroke his knuckles with my thumb, despairing over the thinness of his skin. It was thrilling, in its own right, how he allowed me to touch him and I promised myself then and there that I would never abuse the privilege. I was pleased to see that my bare bone speech had produced a thoughtful expression.

"What was it that pitched you into such a fever?"

Now that was an easy enough question to answer! Of their own accord, my lips began to turn upwards. "You." So simple and so true. "It has always been and ever shall be you, my dear John." My eyes fell, uncertain if he would be shocked by this next part as I had been so unsuitably unfair in my judgment towards him. "For weeks after my return I waited. Surely, I thought, surely you could not forgive me so easily. I left you! I abandoned you at those wretched falls with the belief that I had died! I knew you would blame yourself for having left me to my supposed doom to chase what was nothing more than a wild goose." Watson's expression was all I needed for conformation on that point. "But I had to!" I had to make him understand. "Moran was hunting us and I could not allow him to turn his sights upon you!" The pain of our separation slammed into me once more, and I could no longer look at him. "So I ran as far and as fast as I could, knowing I was the central game, the ultimate tiger for the old shikar."

When John failed to respond, I did not look back up at him, at least, not yet. This was not proceeding in the direction that I wished and I was uncertain as to where to go next. As always, when my mind found a task too difficult to contemplate, it turned to the practice that restored order to the chaos in my world. Deducing.

His hand was still within my own, and I soon found myself turning it over so that I might test the feel of his skin, follow the creases of his palm, trace the nail with mine, examine the joints for their limberness. I kept my touch light and, I hoped, soothing. I was infinitely more pleased than I care to admit when his limbs seemed to drain of the tension they were holding, even if conversely it was disheartening to see just how tense he had been. When he sighed, I knew my pleasure was on display for him to see. Perhaps I could go on, but to where?

"I did my best to be rid of them, you know." It was quite the non secquiter, I will admit, but it seemed to return my doctor to the present.

The look of fond exasperation that he gave me warmed my insides in pleasant ways. "You speak, as always, in riddles."

"It is no riddle," I insisted earnestly, "merely a continuance. You wanted—want—to know what has caused me to treat you in such a villainous manner and I am attempting, rather poorly, to do so." I drew in a breath for I was approaching the moment of truth. "I worked myself into such a state, after which I contrived that dastardly plan, because of my feelings for you."

There it was, stated plainly, even if it was not the whole of it. I waited rather impatiently to see what he would make of that, for he was to be my guide on how I was to continue. I must say, though, that the confused wariness that I had induced was rather disconcerting.

"Just what feelings," he demanded at last, "were those?"

Though my expression was no doubt doing a rather poor job at this point of hiding anything from him, it was disturbing to me how I jerked at such a question. I intertwined our fingers once more, giving them a tight squeeze. Time now, it seemed, to reveal all.

"My hope, my fear, my joy, my admiration," my voice stuttered to a stop and I drew in a deep breath for fortification before revealing what was in my innermost heart, "my love."

My eyes were drawn to his, witnessing every emotion as it flashed across his face faster than even I was able to interpret. Oh, would that I were not a novice at this! My entire life I had abstained from such attachments, sneering at those (yes, even my John) who would allow themselves to be entangled in such a manner. Now I am bemoaning my ignorance for what it has done to us both. John would be my guide in this matter and all matters of such a nature forever and always in the future. If only I knew what he thought on the matter, but silence had reigned since I had made my announcement.

When I could stand it no more, I squeezed hi hand. "Please," I pleaded, "say something!"

When the only response I received was a blink, I gripped his shoulder, giving it a little shake. Surely my announcement had not caused that great of a shock?

"John!"

"You are lying." His pronouncement hit me with all the delicacy of a careening cab and I reared back as though he had punched me. I think, even now, I would have felt better if he _had_ hit me. It was…not an answer that I had foreseen him giving despite the numerous scenarios I had contemplated. I could not let that stand, he could not be allowed to continue to think in such a manner. But it was more difficult than I believed possible.

"No! I would never…How could you say such a thing?" I freely own that I wish it had not come out sounding of an accusation.

His face took on an mulish expression (and as ridiculous as this sounds, I found it appealing) before he wrapped his arms around himself. "It would not be the first time," the bitterness that dripped from his tone was like acid, "that you have done so to achieve your ends. I am heartily tired of being cast the fool in your melodramas and I would thank you not to do so now."

I could see the tears rising, his valiant fight to hold them at bay, and do nothing to help.

And—worse yet—he was not done.

"If you have finished, I must ask you to leave. I am very tired and wish to sleep." He presented me with his back, dismissing me from his presence with his actions as well as his words, and shielded himself—there is no other word for it—with his blanket.

I had his decision—he had forsaken me.

I knew this had always been a distinct possibility, but that it had _happened_ was nearly too unbelievable for me to comprehend. I had, rather imprudently I suppose, held out the hope that my John would forgive, or at the very least allow me the chance to make it up to him. But this ultimate banishment from his presence resembled the very worst of my nightmares.

And, perhaps worst of all, he believed me to be _lying_ to him. Even if I was to leave his company forever, I could not do so while he continued to think that.

I rose from my seat and moved stealthily around the invalid chair. The tears were slowly rolling down those pale, hollow cheeks and I could not—would not allow this to continue. I bent low and clasped his head between my hands, mirroring his action from earlier.

"I _do_ love you, John Watson, possibly more than I ought and whether or not you choose to believe me, I am not lying. I have been a fool not to see what was right in front of me all along, but you must understand, I have no prior experience with the notion of love. But, I am certain, if there ever existed the perfect match for me, it is you. I would hope that you would believe the same and yet I would not blame you if you didn't. I have treated you vilely—for that all I can do is apologize and beg that you will allow me to make it up to you. If you are unwilling to allow this and wish that I would vanish from your sight, I will certainly do so." Taking my courage in hand, I leaned a bit further and placed a kiss upon his forehead.

"I will leave you now to think for I have upset you enough for one day. I am staying the Lion," I felt a smile trying to surface, for even I can appreciate the irony of the situation, "the very room in which you stayed. There, your queen and I shall await your answer."

It was all beginning to overwhelm him, I could tell, but he still managed to ask one more question. "My queen?"

"I believe you named her Regina. She is, indeed, very…" I paused for a moment, attempting to summon the correct adjective that would encompass the impression the feline had imparted to me, but could only manage, "_queenly_."

Rising from my bent position, I released his face in favor of one of his hands and placed a kiss upon the knuckles. I had observed others performing such acts towards those whose attention they wished to court (even if the players involved in those situations had been men and women). I had never felt the compulsion to do so myself, but now…now I _wanted_ to. John, my John, deserved such acts and many more. The thought that I might get to perform such acts sent a breathtaking thrill down my spine, but I clamped down on that bubbling excitement. I would have to await his answer before I allowed myself to contemplate such a future.

"Whatever your final answer may be, John Watson, remember that I love you." With my final declaration, I removed myself entirely from his sight, not wishing to distress him further.

But I found, as I stood at the threshold of the room, that I could not leave, not just yet. I turned, clutching the doorway for support as I observed him from the distance. I had not the vaguest notion, until that very moment, exactly how much our separation would _hurt_. After I had searched, questioned, threatened, and been threatened, I had found him—found him! Why was I not allowed to keep him? No—no—while it seems rather an absurd notion, for John is clearly his own man, I did wish to keep him. His health, his happiness, his safety and security—I wished to make certain that he had all of these, at all times. A fool's wish, but a true one. I was uncertain, if he were to say no, if I would manage to return to England at all. I _am_ certain if I were not, Mycroft would draw the inevitably correct conclusion of my failure.

But I did not want to fail—not in this. If I did, then I would go to my grave with the knowledge that I had destroyed us both, for there was little doubt that the responsibility lay squarely on my shoulders. And he was so miserable, it did not take a deductive genius to make that leap and I wanted to take that away, to bring that handsome smile to those hollow cheeks.

Is this what it means to be in love with another? To ache when they do, share their happiness and their pain, to have every waking moment filled with thoughts of them? If it is so, then I have fallen prey to what has destroyed men and kingdoms alike through the centuries. I pray that I survive the fires of this emotion, but if I were to go down in a blaze of glory, I would gladly do so for him.

As my brain is able to maintain multiple tracks of thought, even in my somewhat diminished state, I was not _just_ contemplating this inward line of thought. My eyes and my focus were still trained on the huddled figure not three feet from me in the invalid chair.

That wretched chair! I knew not what illness had driven him to it, but I would see him out of it again!

That notion was set aside for later contemplation as I became (if it were possible) even more concerned for my doctor. Something was wrong; my fingers clenched around the door frame and my eyes narrowed. It was not any one thing that clued me in to this fact, merely, I hesitate to pen, a hunch. Despite the fact that I was not one to allow myself to fall into the trap of theorizing before I possessed the facts as logic would dictate, I knew that I had hopelessly abandoned logic in the case of my doctor.

Unable to bare the worry any longer, I scurried back to his side. The absolute chaos of emotions that dominated that white face conjured up my concern to the fore once more.

"John? What is it? What's wrong?"

The words that spewed like a cloud of hate and self-loathing from his bloodless lips momentarily stilled me.

"What is wrong," the laugh that followed those few words was the vilest one I had ever heard, "is that you are nothing but an illusion; my mind conjuring up its greatest of tricks to further torment me! I cannot have you and my sanity…"

No more, no more! The depths of the pit my doctor had fallen into were never clearer than that moment and there was an internal shift within me. It was an absolute necessity that I halt the unmitigated bile that John was heaping upon himself and so I found myself giving into an impulse that I have long denied myself.

I kissed him.

I have kissed very, very few people in my life outside my mother and –once—my grandmother, both upon the cheek. I had never enjoyed the activity for its own sake as my few partners in the past had. To be entirely truthful, it all seemed vaguely—unsanitary. While I will be the first to admit that bodily fluids do not bother me, I have no wish to share with others. The prospect of sharing with John, however, did not fill me with that faint feeling of disgust as it had with others.

His lips were terribly chapped, but I detected faint moisture just beyond. This close, the smell of the hospital was nearly overwhelming, but was still _there_ lurking underneath. I did not find the exercise at all distasteful; in fact, I was somewhat alarmed to note, I wanted _more_. I wanted John to flood my senses, washing away the rest of the world as no one or nothing, even cocaine, had ever been able to do before. I broke the kiss before I became carried away and captured one of his hands, flattening it against my chest.

"Feel my heart, Doctor!" I pleaded, for I could not allow him to continue on in such a manner, "I am as real as you and most grieved that you believe that the only manner in which this might happen is in your fevered dreams. It speaks of just how deep and grievous the wound I have inflicted upon you is. Please believe me, John, if I could erase it I would, but since I cannot, I will employ all my powers to seeing it, and you, healed."

My heart beat a rapid staccato beneath his palm, betraying not only the fear I still held, but how much the kiss had affected me. And I could see it, that moment of realization that yes, I was truly here, it was really happening. I had come to him figuratively on my knees (though I promise it would have become literal, if the situation so dictated) to beg his forgiveness or, if he could not grant it, a chance to earn it. Now that he believed, perhaps I could learn where I truly stood.

"You're truly here."

The wonderment of that permeated from that statement was nearly enough to bring tears to my eyes, but I held them in with a valiant effort, allowing a smile to surface instead.

"I truly am."

"Holmes, you hurt me terribly and by all rights, I should never wish to see you again."

This plain, frank assessment sent a renewed set of chills down my spine and I knew, just knew, that he could see my fear. "Is that what you wish?" I believe that I can take some pride in the knowledge that my voice was perfectly steady.

John withdrew his hand from my chest and rubbed his face with it, releasing a very heavy sigh. "I have been asked if I could forgive you by more than one person," he began and my breath stilled, knowing that we were approaching that cardinal point once more, "It is that question, along with _why_ you would do this and what I was to _do_ with myself now, that has plagued me since the beginning. So much of what I am is tangled with that I sometimes lose sight of where I end and you begin."

Too true! At the beginning of our acquaintance, John was merely one of the background players of my life, only marginally more important than Lestrade. By the end of the first month, he had risen to be a staple in my life in Baker Street; at the end of the sixth, he was an extension of myself; by the first year, I wasn't entirely certain how I had ever lived without him. Once I understood the shape that my feelings had taken for him, it seemed as though the puzzle was complete. It was only now, after all that we had been through together, did I see just how ill-fitted my conclusions were in the case of my doctor. Now, how to explain that to him?

But, as before, John was not finished.

"And yet…when I should not care in the slightest, I wish to know how you would make it up to me."

I cannot describe, without descending into the depths of hyperbole, with any accuracy what I was feeling at that moment. But since I know that I am guilty of this and every other literary transgression that I have ever accused my doctor of, I suppose I shall just continue as I have. Happiness, then, was the predominant emotion, of that I can swear to. I was suddenly…warm where I had not been before. I knew that my face was split into a wide smile, but I did not care, because he was willing to give me a chance! I knew that he had not forgiven me, not completely, but my John has a big heart, as well as a forgiving one. As I had made the effort, he was willing to give me the chance. Would that everyone was so lucky. Now…now I needed to be worthy of that chance. Which meant more research into this business of courtship. Perhaps it would be prudent to question Lestrade on the matter as he has a wife.

Not that my Watson could in any way be construed as a woman! No, he is the height of masculinity, but, perhaps, if I were to know the proper steps, I might be able to adapt them to our situation.

Capturing one of those hands once more in my own, I placed a careful kiss upon those too white knuckles. "Thank you," I said with gratitude that came from the very depths of my soul. "My first order of business would be to remove you from this wretched establishment." I sniffed, the imperiousness of old filling my tone. "It is little wonder you have had minimal success in healing."

"Holmes," he protested my rather high-handed remark at once, as was his habit, "this is a perfectly acceptable hospital. It is exceptionally clean and the staff is both caring and confident."

High praise indeed from my doctor, but I would not let once point pass. "But you are not getting any better."

The smile that had previously threatened to take over his face broke through, though I was sorry to see that it was a sad one. "I had no reason to."

"And now?" Please, please my John.

"Now I do."  
"Then you have no objection to my plans thus far?"

He shook his head.

I went on to outline my plan for removing him from the hospital and into the hotel of which he had previously occupied, believing him to have enough strength to withstand the move. England, however, was entirely out of the question at the moment.

When he expressed his private fear that he might never see our home again, I was quick to reassure him.

"You will." Come hell or high water, I would see this man established where he belonged once more. I could only hope that my confidence was infectious. "Once you are home and safely ensconced in your room once more…"

"My room?" His interruption was a startling one, for he usually did not do so. "But I had thought…" He failed to finish that statement, but the stain of red that coloured his cheeks was enough for me to hear what was unspoken.

What was maddening is that my cheeks too began to heat. John thought…immediately? Not even in this private journal can I put into words what I wish us to do together. It is not that I am embarrassed by such acts even if I had only infrequently engaged in them in the past, but to speak of such things, it would be necessary to do so in a clinical fashion and I would not reduce my Watson to such terms. My doctor deserves romance and I will do everything that I must to make certain I get this _right_.

Now, how to communicate this to John?

"While it is gratifying to know you wish to be there, it will not do, at least, not yet." That should set him straight.

"And why not?" Or not, I thought with a frown. Such a maddening creature, that man.

"John, I thought you would know considering…" I trailed off, and I could feel my cheeks gaining even more heat, momentarily stymied as to how I should continue. "That is to say," I eventually managed, "is it not customary to court one's beloved first? My research into this matter has led me to that conclusion."

If one could consider observing a couple on the Parisian streets as research, of course, but he did not need to know that.

When only silence greeted my question, I began to doubt myself. Was there perhaps a step before courtship that I had missed? As I said before, I sadly lacked experience in this arena. My liaisons of the past were of a physical nature, not an emotional one, so the approach was _entirely_ different. As always, I will consult the expert.

"While I will be the first to admit that I am entirely out of my depth, was I wrong for drawing such a conclusion?"

He was quick to assure me that yes, my conclusion was not wrong and, in a distinctly sly manner, asked how I intended to court him.

I gathered my wits quickly, arranging my expression in such a manner as to ward off further questioning. He did not need to know that I had not thought beyond the point that I _did_ want to court him.

"For now, I believe, that shall remain my secret."

"In other words," a voice interjected from behind, "he does not know yet, for he has not gotten that far with his research."

Idiot! Fool! I am the worst sort of bumbler for not making certain that we were alone. The fact that my reunion with the man had completely overwhelmed me and that this situation has me entirely out of sort is no excuse. John's safety is paramount and any part of our conversation was enough to damn us both as sodomites. In the eyes of the law it was an unforgivable crime. I would not let John be touched by such a scandal, I would die first!  
I whirled to face the intruder, murder in my thoughts, but found myself faced with a gentleman of considerable years who sported, if I am any judge, a very smug smile. I had thought that the surprises that I had endured during the course of these happenings had come to an end now that I had found John.

Alas, it seems I was destined for one more.

"Grand-pére? Grand-pére Vernet?"

This cannot be possible, was all that my mind would helpfully supply as I examined the man before me. He must be nearly ninety, if I were to estimate for only was I uncertain how old my grand-mére had been when she had given birth to my mother, I did not know how much older he was than his sister, my grand-mére. It is true, he was Mycroft and mine great uncle, but since we had not known our true grandfather, he had taken on the role.

He was one of the few pleasant memories of my childhood, for he did not mind the strange child who followed him around and asked incessant questions. He did not, in fact, find me strange at all, unlike my father. He had been the one to encourage my interest in art. He had been the one to gift me with my first violin and, later, my Strad. I told John that I had bought it from a Jewish peddler, when, in fact, it had been a gift from my grand-pére who had told the same story. I have no doubt that it was exactly that—a story. My father was never pleased by how I would behave, or the behavior grand-pére would encourage in me. He would allow me to sit at his feet for hours as he was painting, challenging me to follow his train of thought as his brush caressed the canvas.

The last time I had seen him after my father banished him from our home for stating that he believed my father to be an "Overly pretentious lump of foul deformity who was false of heart, light of ear, and bloody of hand and had not so much brain as ear wax." He rounded it off with the final proclamation that my father was "A mountain of mad flesh," as well as "An infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise-breaker," and that it was his greatest wish that they would "be better strangers."

Grand-pére always held a great appreciation of Shakespeare.

When I entered Oxford he presented me with my beloved Stradivarius and bade me to play it "for fun and the curing of the grays of life." Not long after I had received a telegram from Mycroft informing me of our relative's death.

He was certainly the most alive dead person I had ever seen.

His chuckle snapped me from my stupor and the growing amusement shown through that wrinkled face. "Tell me I am wrong, Little Lock." The mischief simply oozed from his tone and I felt my arms cross reflexively in defense, a scowl asserting itself upon my features.

"You cannot trick me so easily anymore, une vieille," I sneered, earning a delighted laugh in return.

"That is likely true, Little Lock, but at least you followed my instructions very well."

Instructions? What instr…Oh! I am a double fool! I withdrew the note given to by the maid from my pocket.

"You sent this," It was a statement.

He inclined his head, laughter lurking in those dark blue eyes. "_Come with an apology in hand or do not come at all_. I see that you found what you seek."

My eyes trailed back to my John who was certainly drawing a great deal of humor from the exchange and could not halt the smile that overtook my face. "That I did."

There is not much more to relate. John could not be extracted from those doctors' sadistic clutches for a whole seven days more. I made certain, however, that during that time that he was hardly ever alone. More than once I was chased from his side, while others (when I was playing my violin) I was allowed to stay as long as I wished. When he was resting, I often found myself moving only two beds down to my grand-pére, who took it upon himself to instruct me in the art of courtship. When I pointed out I was unaware of his marriage, he whipped back with, "Just because I never took vows does not mean I lacked in companionship, or that my bed was empty. Now listen, as you have proved you are all eyes and no sight, and you might actually succeed in this."

Thoroughly chastised, I took notes, both written and mental. I would not fail in my quest.

We both visited the hospital one last time when we were ready to return to England, each saying our separate good-byes to the man who had lent his aid in bringing us together once more. We both knew it would be the last time either of us would ever see him. I had not remarked upon the bloody handkerchiefs, but I had seen them, and knew that my grand-pére was not long for this world. Aged or not, we knew that he would whip us both if we were to mourn him before he was in the ground, so it was a happy and hopeful good-bye and one that grand-pére followed with the promise to, "keep an eye on our progress."

We are in Baker Street once more and while all has not returned to what it once was, I believe that we are on the path to something even greater. My John is improving by leaps and bounds and it fills me with great satisfaction and, yes, joy, to know that I am in part responsible for that. I have learned, however reluctantly, that in order to make certain that he recovers, I must as well. I have treated myself very poorly over the years and if I am to give my body to him, I wish it not to be a too large sack of bones. I feel better for the attention I have given myself and I can tell that my John approves, it clearly shines from his face each time he sees me put away a decent meal.

As for the cocaine, it was the first thing to go. The moment we were in our sitting room alone, I retrieved the Moroccan case and, after smashing each and every vial in the fireplace, consigned the case itself to the same fate.

The look upon John's face is one I will forever cherish.

There is no more to relate and the hour has grown late. My eyes are drooping with exhaustion, but I feel satisfied. I believe that now I will be able to sleep unburdened by nightmares. I must be fresh and at my best for tomorrow…tomorrow my courtship of John Watson begins.

Sherlock Holmes, 1984

The End

A/N: And that, as they say, is that. I hope that tied up all the loose ends for everyone!

*Puppy dog eyes* Tell me what you think? Reviews are the fruit of life!


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